When Candy Met Bridget

Valentine's Day seems like the perfect time to talk about dating and how completely horrifying it is.

I confess. I am a bad dater. In my real life I can talk to anyone about anything, (well, almost anyone about anything, I'm not terribly confrontational though) but when it comes to a guy I actually like, I become a spaztastick idiot who cannot string a coherant sentence together, and if I do I am revealing WAY too much and am emotionally slutty. It's not easy being me my friends.

I was reminded of how spazzy I am in the middle of the night last night when I had to get up to go to the bathroom. In my cold-induced thrashing about I had knocked off several pillows (don't even get me going on why I have so many pillows on my bed) and on my way to the bathroom I caught my toe on one and had I not had my cat-like barely-passable reflexes, I might have beaned myself on the corner of my bureau. I am truly poetry in motion.

Several weeks ago I went on a date to an art opening and even topped myself with my klutziness.

Often part of my problem with dates is my choice of outfits. One night a few years ago I nearly set my flowy sleeves on fire on my gas stove while trying to impress my then-boyfriend by making quesadillias. I hoped he hadn't noticed, but I'm sure he did.

So on this particular evening I decided that instead of dealing with a coat (despite the frigid temps) to only wear a pashmina, which, during the course of the evening I managed to drop about six times, tangle myself in twice. but that wasn't the worst part; no that came later. When looking for a pen for him, I spilled the entire contents of my purse on the floor sending tampons, keys, lip gloss, a notebook and God only knows what else across the floor. The guy was truly a gentleman, leaving the womanly products to me, but still helping me retrieve all my things. I was mortified, and yet somehow, the mortification only added to the spaziness. It was a trying night for all involved I think.

I try to think that there is an endearing quality to all this. Afterall, most everyone loves Bridget Jones, don't they? Bridget and I have a lot in common. We both tend to over-share, we're both not the most coordinated of women, and we're both fools for love being too easily seduced by the the Daniel Cleavers of the world. Like Bridget I hope for a scenario like this, but am more likely to end up like this.

I haven't seen that guy again, though someone else I met that night asked me out last week. Somehow I think he must have missed the floor show, or he's just a really big romantic comedy fan.