There comes a time in every single girl's life (so far, so frickin' Carrie Bradshaw, right?) when she feels that she is done with the whole search. Done. Over it. She is at the end of her tether, and she just can't summon the energy to even think about putting herself back out there. Her options at this point seem to be:
1. convert to lesbianism;
2. become a nun; or
3. get cats.
None of these options are open to me because:
1. I like boys;
2. I like boys; and
3. I'm allergic.
Picture this scenario. You meet a guy, a lovely, tall, kind-eyed guy who you stumble across in the course of your everyday life and, after enjoying a long and rambly chat outside in the sunshine, pluck up the courage to ask him out for a coffee. He says yes. The stuff of daydreams.
So you meet up for a date in an intimate venue and it's going really well - the attraction is apparent, you talk about all sorts of things, and the more time you spend together the more you discover you have in common. A love of folk music. A disdain of alarm clocks. A belief in the revolutionary power of cycling.
A couple of hours fly by.
And then, just as he is saying how glad he is that you asked him out, and is suggesting that you meet up again soon at a place he knows, you make an off-handed comment about how scary it was asking him out, when you didn't even know if he had a girlfriend or not.
He squirms. He says "What if I told you that I do have a girlfriend? And a son?"
WHAT. IN. HOLY. HELL.
The "date" ends shortly thereafter.
So. Not the worst date I've ever been on (I'll blog about that another time), but definitely in my Top 3 All-Time Shitty Dates. Being single in your thirties sure does suck sometimes.