By the time the bill came, I already knew I didn’t like Q. all that much. This was the moment when things went from not great to incredulous.

Q. wasn’t exactly my type. He was good looking in some of the photos and a hipster in all of the photos. Exaggerated glasses, ironic clothing, indie tastes. But we both like the Internet, so I gave him points there. With not much else going on in the dating department I gratefully accepted his invitation to brunch. Plus, he invited me to a brunch date. How weird and wonderful could this be?

Unfortunately, it was not going to be weird and wonderful in a good way. My date with Q. landed the day after the N. fiasco and, while I needed time to mourn, I didn’t want to cancel on such short notice. So I tried to put on a good front about how I was feeling and just power through.

My date with Q. also landed on one of the hottest, most humid days of the year and was scheduled quite a distance from my apartment, while conveniently being mere feet from his. By the time I arrived, I was drenched in sweat and panting (pro tip: always a good look).

We ordered our meals and Q. oddly passed on an alcoholic brunch beverage. How could he handle the cold hard truths brought on by broad daylight without the help of booze? If not for the booze (or the being depressed about another guy, or the not being too into this one) I would have been unable to wear my mosquito bite scabbed legs and grey hair with pride.

Our meal was like any other brunch between total strangers. Q. came off as very intelligent and ambitious (I did too, probably). I just couldn’t get over my recent rejection enough to engage with him properly, and I think that skewed things. Until it was time to settle up. Knowing I had little interest in Q., I felt bad about him paying for the entire meal. So I kindly offered to split the check. He then told me he didn’t mind paying for our meal, assuming his card didn’t get declined.

His card got declined. He had no cash and only a rarely accepted credit card. So I got stuck paying for the entire brunch to which he invited me. Feeling guilty about the “situation” with his card, he offered to get me a great after brunch snack (??). But the great after brunch snack place didn’t take the rarely accepted credit card either. So we had to find a deli that would accept his card and buy enough stuff to meet the credit card minimum. In the end I got a commercial-brand bottle of juice for all my troubles.

Juice in hand, we made our way to a local park and talked a bit. My second date with N. was supposed to be this same evening, and I had let Q. know I had plans later in the day. This turned out to be a false time constraint, which worked to my favor. Not really being in the mood to spent more time with Q., I pulled out my “later in the day plans” and we parted ways after a FDGH. After mulling it over, I decided Q. was not sponge worthy and I did not respond to his request to see me again. Although, with such a good racket going, perhaps I should reconsider so I can learn from the master.

There’s a moment before a date, a few hours before usually, where an intense feeling of dread sets in. I feel it in the pit of my stomach and it usually tries to convince me that I should go home and queue up a Hoarders marathon instead. This feeling doesn’t happen all the time, but it does happen often. In the hours before my date with N., there was no such feeling. I was actually looking forward to this. 

When I arrived at the bar, sweating and slightly dizzy from the hot summer air, there was not a soul outside. My suitors and I never plan that meticulously, but I never know if someone is an outdoor greeter or a let’s-search-for-a-person-I’ve-never-met greeter. N. was the latter, so naturally his first impression of me includes my derp face, as I looked all around the bar for him in a panic. N. was not one of the few people sitting alone at the bar. Instead he got up from a table full of people. He’s here with his friends?! Oh my god, what have I gotten myself into? Luckily it was just a coincidence, not an escape route. He didn’t know his friends would be here. We didn’t have to sit next to them.

We had drinks far away from the random friends. The conversation was great. We had a lot in common. He made me In Real Life Laugh Out Loud. And I did the same in return. Although he did incredulously ask me why I was single. That kinda sucked. What is an appropriate answer to this question? “Well, I’m kind of a nightmare.”

Regardless of that slight ding, things were going well enough that N. asked me if I wanted to go to dinner. An instant date! We headed to a nearby restaurant and had a lovely meal. I was pretty drunk at this point, but tried real hard to keep it together. I don’t really have a lot of dates like this one so I had to make sure this worked out. After dinner and on the walk to the subway, he kissed me and we stopped to make out a few times. Things are going so well! I liked N. a lot. At this point he’s pre-spongeworthy. Assuming he doesn’t admit to being a grand wizard on our next few dates, it’s a done deal. 

But there will not be a second date. N. sent me a kind and effusive message asking if I’d like to hang out again sometime. After some strange technical difficulties involving text messages not being received (does that even happen anymore?), we made plans and all was well. The evening before our date, N. sent me a message that he had been mugged and was not in the mood to go on a date. He thought I should know and did not want to “waste my time”. EOM.

Sounds like he doesn’t want to see me ever again, whether he was actually mugged or not. I wrote back making sure to express my sympathies and that I was still interested, but my efforts were fruitless. He deleted his profile later that same day, which forced me to cancel our wedding face the truth of the situation. The lie isn’t really the problem, it’s the not knowing the truth. I’ll never know what went wrong here, with what seemed like a really promising guy. That’s going to eat away at me. It seems as though no one is sponge worthy after all.

The enlightening thing about online dating is the ability to see the inverse proportion between the types of people you are attracted to and the types of people who are attracted to you. This is also quite humbling, at least when you realize the Jake Gyllenhaals of the world don’t waste their time looking at the Weiner Dogs. That also means coming to terms with the fact you’re not an Anne Hathaway afterall.

Therefore, the men that are attracted to you and take the time to write (in some sense whether you like it or not) are the same men within “your league”. What does it say, then, when these men you’re not thrilled with are also not thrilled with you?

My date with F. was fairly standard. We met at a cool hotel bar for drinks and chatted for awhile, yet I just wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole situation. The utter state of despair has left me in a thick cloud of confusion. “Well, he clearly showered today. I like showers. Surely we should go on another date”.

Not to say that F. wasn’t lovely. There was nothing alarming about him. But he got me drunk, you see. And started asking questions. Being perhaps overly honest, I decided to answer those questions. About the things I believe and the passions that drive me. Things that are perhaps too risqué for a first date. Ultimately, I feel like those things are a part of me and if it comes out now, then you can take it or leave it without incident. F. didn’t seem alarmed. I thought I had passed the test. Until our second round of drinks finished at 8.58pm, an hour after we met, and he said it was time to wrap things up. Because I am a chicken I hastily agreed, knowing that when two people like each other they don’t rush to end the first night they meet.

With nary a message, text, or even carrier pigeon in sight, it’s safe to say F. rejected me. A guy I’m ambivalent about decided I’m not good enough for him. I’ve been struggling to come up with a male equivalent term for spongeworthy and I better do it soon, seeing as how the line of guys who don’t feel that way about me is growing exponentially. If I could come up with a word for this, I think I could strike it rich.

“He’s not calling me back because he likes me too much.” - an actual, real idea* I used to abide by when dating in my younger days.

I’ve been trying something a bit different, novel even; only going out with guys that I am excited to meet. Weird, right? My hope is that by being a bit more selective, I can actually initiate some guys into this sponge worthy club of mine. This was the plan with C.

C. was interesting and smart. His profile stated he was only a few inches taller than me, but COME ON don’t be so shallow, me. Also he is a comedian. Armed with that knowledge, the stakes became even higher. We met for drinks at the same bar where my KJ disaster happened, in the hopes that the bar had nothing to do with it.

Things were going smoothly, despite some mild but as to be expected awkwardness. He was funny but more importantly, I was too (he laughed at my jokes!). As usual I mentioned some things best left out of first date conversations, like how my huge fear of insects has led me to being unable to pick up the insect carcass that’s been in my bedroom for a few weeks. Who wouldn’t want to date a girl after a confession like that? I can’t think of a single person who wouldn’t.

Oh wait, the answer is C. C. doesn’t want to date a girl like that. I’m not sure how one translates “things are going smoothly”, but to me, that would mean you didn’t instantly regret your choice the second you met the person, no horrific facts or habits were revealed, and you might actually be having fun. The other optional indicator would be when the guy TELLS YOU he thinks things are going well. When it was time to say goodnight, I sensed genuine and mutual positive feelings. Granted, I gave him the FDGH, but I was pretty drunk. I saw an alternate reality where we did kiss goodnight and that reality was filled with disaster. So I played it safe and after our hug, C. got the hell outta there. “Hmm, that’s odd”, I thought as I headed down into the subway.

That moment left me feeling uneasy, so I broke the rules and sent a thank you text when I got home. He wrote back and asked if I was free a few days later for another date. I was not free, so I suggested we try for something next week. And then I never heard from him again. C., what happened? You were well on your way to being sponge worthy? I’ll admit I am perturbed by the rejection. It just doesn’t make sense. But when you chalk up behavior like this to the wild wild west nature of dating (complete lawlessness, every man for himself), dwelling over it becomes a complete waste of time. Move along pardner, there are other dates to come.

*delusion

It’s true readers, we’ve hit the one year anniversary of my single-dom and the birth of sponge worthy. Hurray, congratulations us! Us being this entire chronicle of sad sadness. We’ve had some good times, right? Right? Hello??

Just as I predicted the dating nightmare shows no sign of stopping. It might lie dormant for awhile, when not a single male soul wants to take pity on my for one drink at best, but the nightmare always come back around again. To celebrate my anniversary, I had drinks with M. 

M. is the only one who’s asked me out recently who is not a complete weirdo. He has a creative job and owns a dog. Sold. Done.

After snagging some good seats and waiting (and waiting), my nerves and excitement deflated as M. walked into the bar. He was much older than his photos, a bit fatter, and worst of all, late despite living around the corner from the bar. That’s kind of not OK, especially for a first date.

We exchanged pleasantries, ordered drinks, and began the dry conversation. I will give him points for kissing me on the cheek instead of shaking my hand. To the crowded bar, we were not 2 socially stunted nerds who needed to take to the internet to get laid. It was quite a relief!

However, points end here. There was no spark. For me, at least. M. stopped me mid-sentence to tell me how lovely I am. ::Cringe:: Dear all dudes: please, please don’t interject with compliments that are not actually true. We all know how this is going to end and it makes me feel terrible.

Much to the chagrin of my better judgement, I went with M. to his apartment, to meet his dog after the drinks. He has a very nice and impressive loft apartment. And a very cute and sweet doggie. The dog, oh my god. Can I date the dog without the guy? We walked his dog around a nearby park. Our continued conversation grew more cold and awkward. At that point I couldn’t even bother to insert my opinion anymore; instead there was a lot of nodding and uh huhs. Once we arrived at my train station I quickly said goodbye and got the hell out of there. Sorry M, you are quite unenthusiastically not sponge worthy. I hope the summer provides more polarizing and terrible suitors because the middle of the road ones break my heart.