Late night chicken

I should be sleeping.

It is 2 in the morning and I have to work tomorrow. I should be sleeping but I am not.

I should at least be staring at my dust covered ceiling fan, making seizure inducing shadows on the brick wall above my bed, counting the rotations till my eyes forget that my brain isn’t yet tired. But I don’t.

I surf the internet. I check my facebook page for the zillionth time, I shop online for things I cannot afford, I half-watch episodes of Dexter on netflix.com, I google stalk.

I am not ready to surrender to the beginning of Monday and I occupy myself to avoid considering the opportunity my family friendly weekend has presented.

It seems the universe is trying to find me a date and I am hell bent to blow the universe off.

Why is it that when you just don’t give a shit, when the thought of dating is about as appetizing as a grilled chicken wrap after hours upon hours of biting into slimy camera ready chicken and smiling every time the director says, “let’s get a shot of you chewing from another angle,” that matchmakers and matches start appearing around every turn.

I woke up far too late to take full advantage of my day off but mustered up the energy for the farmer’s market. I was there, minding my own business, when the men selling me my zucchinis and funky star-looking squash things, started interrogating me on my love life.

“I bet you need a big guy,” said the one with the ZZ Top beard. “How tall are you? 5’10”? 5’11”?

“And some change,” I said, in what has become my standard response.

The two elderly gentleman quizzed me on my preferences and physical requirements and I obliged because they were charming, in a creepy leprechaun-y sort of way and because I had just spent the last of my cash and I was betting I could score some free veggies.

I did, in fact, but they didn’t want me to walk away with just a handful of vegetables I would have no idea how to cook. They wanted to find me a man.

“What about *Guy*?” said the bald one. (His name wasn’t actually Guy but I figure it is best to protect the identity of my potential future husband until I actually meet him.)
“Oh yeah!! He would be perfect. You’d like him. His is a big guy. He owns ---(fill in the name of hipster downtown restaurant)! And I bet he could handle you!”

“You have to go and tell him Thane sent you.”

“Um, sure.” I was a little disturbed at being pimped out these toothless Woodstock relics, but they were so giddy I hated to spoil their fun. So they rattled on like a bunch of old chickens or my grandmother and her sisters when they get together to see who can cackle loudest.

There wasn’t a chance in hell that I would actually go stalk a complete stranger at his place of business and tell him that some random old men said we would be perfect together – at least… not again… but I was amused by the possibilities and empowered by the fact that if I wanted to, I could.
~

Later, a gorgeous, funny, smart, accomplished, did I mention gorgeous man asked me on a date. I never ceased to be shocked when attractive men hit on me, a residual insecurity of chubby adolescence and awkward post-adolescence that I doubt I will ever escape.

I was flattered and I said yes but as I lay here counting the minutes until I am running late for work, I am sorting out my excuse to bail.

There are plenty of reasons why not (luckily, none of them seem to be the old stand by of ‘you’re not good enough’) but mainly, I just can’t make myself be that interested. It is nice in theory but the thought of actually shaving my legs and spritzing perfume behind my ears is just not as appealing as it used to be.

I am rejecting the idea that I am officially in a drought. I talk a big enough game that no one would believe that but I think that maybe my faux man fast has completely taken over my animal instinct and plain common sense, which is screaming to jump at a great thing.

I don’t know maybe the universe is serving up plate after plate of the tastiest poultry this side of the Mississippi, but it’s still chicken and I am just not that hungry.