Confession:  I almost reactivated my Plenty of Fish account this week.  I stopped myself.  I decided to think that over and not be so impulsive (ahhh, a sign of maturity-noteworthy).  I’m glad I didn’t do it.  Last year it was active for a week or two and dude, that was like crazy.  You get 99 messages a day, all from people who you have nothing in common with, mostly all with bad pickup lines, and mostly everyone was just looking to get laid.  Wow.  And you have to deal with all of that sober.  No, it’s too much.  There’s a host of venues large and small that you can go to any night here on the Coast with the same results, sobriety optional.  It’s called a “bar” and I’m a bar professional. (Wow, that’s a serious line and not comedic, which makes it all the more hilarious).

Why did I think that was a good idea to begin with?  Well, I’d like to meet people and possibly go on a date or few.  I can’t tell you the last time I went to the movies.  And when I did, it was probably alone.  I’ve been hiding in my house since the end of last summer when some health issues threw me down and sucker punched me.  On top of that, I thought I had actually met someone with whom I belonged.  I am perfectly healthy now, a free agent, and ready to (metaphorically only) jump back out there.  I’m doing things I love again–writing for the Observer, seeing my friends shows, supporting others with their business ventures, taking less anti-anxiety meds in the midst of that, and I look freaking fabulous.  I mean, not fabulous on the grand scale of all females in the nation, but damn good for Apryl!  So, I feel like a million bucks.  I just think it’d be nice to experience some of that with someone else and not alone.

But since I’m on this vulnerability and authenticity kick, playing “the game” isn’t easy.  I am too old and too shitty at lying to be anyone but me.  Apparently, I’m a minority.  Ex: I met this guy, he’s alright, not my type per se but we chat easily about whatever, he tells me his name is Phil Robertson, just like Duck Dynasty.  “Haha that must suck!” blah blah.  Later, he puts his credit card down at Waffle House to pay for his meal.  Um, I didn’t have on my glasses, my skirt was above my knee, but did I misrepresent myself as an idiot?  Amateur.  He’s not named Phil Robertson.  Bro, that’s the best you got?  I’m too old for this.

I’d forgotten the misadventures you encounter amidst the adventures when you leave your home and get social.  Which is why I’m glad I didn’t POF it.  For now, I will sit back and observe the scene.  Still sucks to go at it alone, but lawd it’s better than sifting through a bunch of crap.  I’m thinking a “referral only” plan needs to be in place.  Aw, well, so be it. “Phil Robertson”?! LOL. You need an awesome sense of humor in this world or it gets to be a grim place anyway.  For now, it’s deadline weekend and I can’t really go out much those weekends so I spent Fri & Sat night in. Crunch time.  Enough whining.  I have to go take some pics, visit Sephora, edit pics, polish article, and send to editor.