I’m going to let you in on a (big) little secret.
I know how you can win over ANYONE YOU WANT.
Are you ready?
No… You’re not. You’re not ready. Stop. I see your face. You’re not ready. I’m not messing around.
Are. You. Ready?
Oh. Okay. Fine. You want my credentials:
- Years 0 through 21: Unrequited Love
- Years 21 to 31: White picket fence
- Year 31.5: Divorce
- Year 32: Rebound from Hell
- Year 32.5: Rebound from Hell: Fully Reloaded
- Year 33: 10 Dates in 10 Weeks
- Year 33.5: (Elective?) Celibacy
- Year 34: Well…but he’s so nice…
- Year 35: (Elective?) Celibacy Reboot
- Year 36: TBD
Where were we?
Do you think it’s looks? Do you think it’s money? Do you think it’s who you know?
I’m not the funniest, smartest, richest, or most beautiful person you’ll ever meet.
I’m not being modest. I’m being honest. If they paid me for cellulite and drunken snafus I wouldn’t even have to be writing this right now.
But look at Year 33.
See that? Ten dates in ten weeks. That’s not an exaggeration. That’s a thing I did. Me. A textbook introvert who would rather Tweet-watch a show with a group of strangers than have an actual conversation. I think MeetUp is a place where people go to avoid their families on not-real-holidays like Memorial Day. (Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I eat tortillas in front of the refrigerator wearing pajama pants held together by a safety pin that I may or may not have inherited from Laura Ingalls Wilder.)
And out of those ten dates? Eight of them asked for a second one.
During this phase of, er, prolific dating, my hair changed. My weight changed. I think my job even changed. None of that mattered. No one cares. People only care HOW YOU MAKE THEM FEEL.
Except a few.
A few people who really love you.
And why am I telling you all of this?
no one asked me for a third date those few people who really love you need to include YOU. I grew up feeling rejected (see: years 0-21), and now, I suppose, to prove a point, I can (kinda) get anyone to (sorta) like me anytime I want. And so can you.
But it doesn’t mean a thing.
And if you don’t love you?
Well. I do. So.
SUCK ON THAT.
(…See? I just got you to like me, didn’t I?)