Be Careful What You Wish For

I've apparently become uninspired, unmotivated, and unliked by my readers, as I lost all control over my resolution to resolve. The more I think about it, the more I realize the the recent overwhelming "un's" are because I'm overwhelmed by 52 resolutions. I mean, let's be real for a hot second here...if I really had 52 things I needed to change about myself, I think I'd need more than a blog to help me get there.

I mean, sure. I could probably list off more than enough things to change, but I don't know that all of them are serious enough to document. I mean, after all, I've already had one feisty reader argue that laundry is not a resolution. And being that, to date, I've failed to keep up on said topic, I still beg to differ.

That said, I'm back, and I'm going to do this. I just can't promise I'll reach the "52." I'm hoping that without the pressure of having to come up with a new ordeal each week, I'll be re-inspired, re-motivated, and, of course, re-liked by all of you.

I will get back to resolutioning asap. I also may need to revisit a few from earlier in the year, as I've fallen off almost all of those bandwagons too. Except I've done exceptionally well, if I do say so myself, with one...

I've remained (pretty) open minded when it comes to dating. After so many years not thinking about it, there comes a time when you realize that you do kinda want to be noticed, maybe want to be approached, and potentially even start to date.

Unfortunately for me, this is not necessarily a good thing. Flattery is what one might feel when the waitress comes to your table and says that her other table wants to know if we were single. Shame is what you feel when you tell the waitress how old you actually are, and she returns moments later to let us know that the boys regretfully decline as we are a little bit out of their dateable range. That's right people, had I kept my mouth shut, I almost got hit on by a 20 year old with a fake ID, and I, at the ripe old age of 28, could have been a cougar...

Fast forward a few minutes on the same evening when a couple of, we'll call them "interesting" boys sit down at our table. Charming, in a dirty, obnoxious, inappropriate kind of way. So charming that my new bf couldn't remember my actual name, and because he decided I was Spanish, him and his "boyz" called me "Spaniard" for the rest of the night. True love, I'd say.

Most recently, I was approached by a man who told me about his two divorces, and 2 daughters...one 25, one 27. Although I'm not good at math, I calculated quickly and determined he just may be a tad older than me. I carded him, saw he was born in 1954 (I wish I was kidding), and followed my friends as they laughed their way out of the bar.

I've also been on a few dates (not with any of the above) and I think its safe to say that I'm not entirely terrible at it. I mean, don't get me wrong...I'm definitely not at all good at it either. But,at least I didn't trip over my own feet, fall on my face, and I can honestly say that I completely resisted the urge to play with my food. Maybe on a future date, I'll be able to avoid shredding my napkin and will attempt to partake in conversation that I otherwise might have attempted to ignore in order to watch the hockey game that I might have conveniently and purposely positioned myself to be able to watch over my disaster date's head...

Go Caps!