Monday Bear

So, since I was unable to blog for the entire past semester (nursing school is hard), I forgot to mention one of my favourite experiences of 2008.  Before I tell the story, I must say that yes, I really am that self-absorbed.  I do not deny it.

So if you have known me for at least 15 minutes or read more than three blog entries, you know that I am quite insecure (getting better?), and although my engagement to Matthew has given me a huge boost in confidence, it seems as if I’m not getting the mail male attention that I used to get.  It really doesn’t matter, because I’m of course not going to act upon that male attention, and all that really matters is that Matthew loves me and thinks that I am attractive (and he does), but if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it at least thrice. It’s just nice to have a little validation once in a while.  Don’t deny it.

—Poop Break—

Ha!  Get it?  Instead of page break? I’m hilarious.

Note: Constant verbalization of bodily functions, esp. of the bowel, possibly reason for reduced male attention?

So here’s the deal:  I took American History, a largely freshman class, this past semester.  Out of 70 people in the class, I was one of 5 “old people.”  Definition of old person:

Dr. E: How many of you were alive back when the wall came down?
The five old people:  *Raises hands*
Freshmen:  What wall?/Whoa, I thought you were our age!/Man, didn’t that happen in the ’70s?

For some reason, and I think they feel the same, I feel as if there is more of a generation gap between myself and an 18 year old than there is between myself and a 35 year old even though I closer in age to the 18 year old.  The times, you know, they are achangin‘.

But I digress.  I noticed in the beginning of the semester that this one guy always looked at me in class.  Maybe he thought I was attractive, or maybe he was just one of those people who look at people.  I liked to think the former.  Much like I am always still eating my salad while everyone else is working on their entree, I was the last one out of the class, and he was usually one of the first.  One day at the end of the semester, I noticed that he was taking an especially long time putting his pen back into his folder.  (That’s what she said.) I thought, “Oh no, this is the day,” and made my engagement ring obvious and rushed out of the room and down the 4 flights of stairs.  In my very cute boots that I got at Ross for 4.99 less 20% when I worked there.  I heard his footsteps close behind, and I kept walking fast on my way to the library to study with Kara and Sara.  (They are not twins, unfortunately.)  I’m about halfway there, and I hear him say, “Hi, you’re Liz, right?”
Ack.  Not that it would be so bad if he asked me out, but I absolutely have to turn him down, no question about it, and I do not like to do that.  I prefer to accept the date and then just not show up.  “That’s me.”
“I’m Snucas,” (not his real name, of course, but it rhymes) “I’ve noticed you in class, and I would just absolutely love to take you out for coffee sometime.”
Holy Moley!  This is the first time a guy has asked me out in over three years.  I think the last time a guy asked me out was that black guy at the hospital who was visiting his attempted suicide friend.  I was looking quite ravishing in my I Love Lucy scrubs.  But again, I digress.  “Oh wow, I am so flattered, Snucas,” (I really, really was,) “but I’m engaged.”
“Hey!  That’s great!  Congratulations!” (Not the reply I was expecting, but a good one nonetheless.)
I quickly change the subject and ask him about his German shepard with whom I saw him walking into Petsmart.  As a sidenote, I was with mum when I saw him walk into Petsmart, and my mom said, “Why is that guy taking his dog in that store? Is he blind?”

He is not very attractive, I would say he was in the mildly hot Jew category (but I don’t think he’s Jewish atall), but had I not been in a relationship, I would have totally said yes.  Here’s how I would have said it:

• Only if you buy me a croissant to dip in my coffee.  Then he would have said, “You can dip your croissant in my coffee,” and then I would have said, “That’s what she said,” and we would have laughed.
• Can I ride your motorcycle?  I have my own helmet.  Then he would have said, “I have my own helmet,” and then I would have said, “That’s what he said,” and then we would have laughed.

• I’d rather go for milkshakes.  You see, I have irritable bowel syndrome, and coffee gives me diarrhea for realz.  And then he would have said, “That’s what she said,” and he would have laughed, but I would have shaken my head and said, “Irritable bowel syndrome is no laughing matter.  It’s very debilitating and affects one out of five Americans.”  Then we would have laughed, and skipped to his motorcycle, on which we would have driven to the milk shake store, where I would have ordered a mocha milkshake anyway, mostly just to spite him.

But Geez, that is the most polite way a guy has ever asked me out.  Ever.  I mean, besides “Will you marry me?”  That was pretty polite.

So I frolicked to the library where I walked into the study room and exclaimed, “I was approached by a man!”  Sara said, “Gasp!  Do I need to call campus police!?” and I said, “No!  He was very polite!”

I told them the story, and then my dear friend Kara, who even whiter, more married, lamer, and smarter than I, but who has an equally bodacious ass as I, said, “Oh.  Some guy yesterday called me ‘Shawty.’”
She turned around, adjusted her glasses, and said, “Hello, old bean.”  But without the “old bean” part.  I told her she should have said that.

I told Matt when he picked me up, and of course, he wasn’t jealous or anything, (Geez louize, I cannot make him jealous.)  He was actually pretty happy for me that I felt validated and that he wasn’t the only one who thought I was adorable.

I called my mom to tell her about it (this really was very important to me, you just don’t understand), and I said, “A boy asked me out!”  She said, “Was he a boy or a man?” I said, “I don’t know.  He looked like he was about 26 or 27.  And he knew who the guy was who shot Ronald Regan.  So I’d say a man.”
Then mom said, “Maybe he is the guy who shot Ronald Regan.”
We quickly threw this option out, however, because we are both pretty sure that guy is still in prison.

So of course, the next thing I do is look him up on facebook.  I don’t find much but a few pictures, including one of him dressed up as a vulva, presumably and hopefully for Halloween.  Clever.  But then I found his myspace page, a treasure trove on information.  Nothing extremely interesting, but holy crap, he’s 31!  Thirty one!  Is he an old guy?  No, absolutely not.  Is he a younger guy?  Absolutely not.  Just a few years older than me really, but it’s the “over 29″ stigma.  I mean, I remember when my mom was in her 30s.  I’ve had 31 year old guys hit on me before, but never ask me out.  A couple years ago, I would have found this terribly creepy, but recently I’ve noticed myself getting ever so much closer to 30, 35, 40, and ultimately, 85.  I began to think about how it never would have worked out, even if I were not engaged to Matt.  He has a big German shepard, and I have cats.  He used to be in the military and is considering a government job with a gun, and I just couldn’t handle it.  Thank God.  But 31?  Really?

Anywho, I decided to look through his blog entries in hopes of finding something about a beautiful, radiant redhead in his history class, but to no avail.  I was actually pretty mad that he hadn’t written anything about me, but then I remembered that I do not have my own orbital force.

I called Alley to tell her about it.  Her husband, by the way, is “in his 30s.”  When I got to the part where he says, “I would just absolutely love to take you out for coffee sometime,” she said, “And then you said, ‘I would just absolutely love to take you shoe shopping with me sometime.’”  Oh, that Alley, she can always find the gay in people.

If that guy ever finds this blog, which he will, I will be absolutely mortified.

So in conclusion, that was my excitement for the year.  Of course it doesn’t really matter, because as everyone knows, I’m happily engaged.  He never really asked me outm per se; it was more of a “Matthew, you’re going to come to my house.  There may be making out involved.”  And he said, “Okay, what does your house look like?” That’s polite enough for me.

Also in conclusion, I really wish that people would stop saying “(Adjective) much?”  For example: “Jealous much?”  Just stop, please.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 7th, 2009 at 4:47 PM and is filed under Awkward Scenarios, Dating, School. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.