I’m Just Sayin’: I’ve Been Dumped Before We’ve Even Started Dating

I kind of suspected that I was absolutely lacking skills in the dating department, but I had no idea how terrifically horrible my chop (or lack thereof) really was, especially when it comes to the “asking someone out” early stages of the courtship game. I’m not just severely impaired. I totally suck! And when I say “suck”, I mean I’m impressively beyond useless.

It’s bad enough that I never know when and if someone likes me but it is perhaps worse when my delusional brain, encouraged by my seemingly supportive entourage, makes me believe, beyond the shadow of a doubt, someone is totally into me. It’s bad because more often than not I get to find out – usually seconds before I’m about to dive into the shark tank – that actually, the one thing she really is, is not into me.

When I scan back on my dating record, it certifiably doesn’t look good at all. Now I know I have a natural penchant for an off the cuff lifestyle (with mild masochistic tendencies) but I never considered myself to be a kamikaze. It recently dawned on me that ever since I entered lesbianhood, I have dedicatedly pulled one pristine dating career assassination move after another. Needless to say, I’m not finding this amusing in the least. And this ritualistic practice of mine never fails to mortify me – but sadly it’s always only after the fact because evidently I always have to spectacularly spiral out of control before figuring out that had I initially used my brain and really thought about it in a methodically logical manner, I would have seen how bad of an idea it was in the first place.

Let’s face it. I’m clueless in a big deal kind of way. The problem is that I am stuck in some kind of a catch 22 predicaments. Either I am the last one to know I am on a date, or, conversely it is my so-called date who never gets the memo. In both cases the outcome is invariably the same: I get absolutely nowhere. Yet because I am smart, I took a pro-active approach: out of the problem and into the solution. I called my friend Kristina.

Quite frankly, as I was melodramatically weeping my heart out trying to convince her that the whole lesbian community was plotting this massive conspiracy against me, I was expecting her to offer a little respite of peace a la “you’ll find another girl in a jiff.”
Instead she rudely declined the cordial invitation to my pity-party and brutally belched out “the jig is up Mona!”
“Can you please tumble back into reality,” she continued slightly exasperated.
“What’s the common denominator?” she then asked in a patronizing way.

I wanted to say “Jesus, Mary, Madonna and Angelina Jolie” but I didn’t think my smart-ass cockiness would have been very much welcome at this critical juncture. So I gave her the answer I knew she wanted to hear.
“Me,” I declared with the same apologetic puppy-eyes as a child who’s just been reprimanded – for emotional blackmail effect of course!

So Ok, the world doesn’t entirely revolve around me and I guess my lesbian fellows are not collectively conspiring to make sure I spend the rest of my life dateless and terminally single. The thing is that I am murderously terrified at the thought of being rejected. And to prevent myself from the serious psychological damage of getting the boot, I have brilliantly made it a habit to apply myself at meticulously executing all the pre-asking out ground work to make sure there’s no room for failure. Obviously the only thing I am executing is myself and clearly the only ground work that is successfully accomplished is the digging of my own grave!
While I am busy mentally gathering undisputed evidence that the object of my affection is into me, my competitors – the fearless scavenging vultures – are busy fiercely moving in on my target. But it’s not my fault if I am paralyzed with numbing fear; nor am I to blame for the abnormally irrational behavior that takes over me as a ripple effect. It’s a “survival of the fittest” instinctual condition, which I absolutely have to blame on a psychological childhood trauma called “daddy.”

Because I am fatally allergic to rejection, I refuse to approach a woman unless I know that my chances of being turned down are impossible or at least less than zero. And to measure the probably of success, or lack thereof, I practice the art of observation – a technique that can, and does take hours, days and sometimes weeks! I need to see that she is giving me all the right signals and that her body language is inviting.

I know, it’s all part of the dating game, blah blah blah, everyone gets rejected at some point and no one should take it personally – but I do!

I just don’t want to be presumptuous because sometimes, even when I think I am getting a good reception – the kind that says “Hey sexy, pick up the call” – the signals get mixed up courtesy of static or cross talk and ultimately the call is dropped – and so am I!

Lately, I’ve had my eyes on – I shall call her – Kate. Single, smart, funny, sexy, feminine looking, geographically desirable and securely employed, Kate is perhaps one of the last few survivors of this endangered specie called “dateable lesbians.”
All right, I’ll confess I wasn’t paying much attention to her at first until my friend Kristina pointed out to me her “dating material” assets. I’m pretty confident that what Kristina was really saying was that she would ask her out if I didn’t immediately claim dibs on her. Of course, because I am absolutely not competitive, not impressionable or psychotically deranged, I instantly switched gears and made my life a monument to Kate. So I promptly put myself in chasing mode and decided to ask her out without really asking her out.

That’s right! Don’t try to adjust your computer screens. You read well: I asked Kate out but not really. What that means is that I came up with a variety of idiotic excuses to hang out with her. And because my restless brain never ran out of ideas, we covered the gauntlet of the gastronomic breaks known to mankind including but not limited to breakfast, lunch, snack, happy hour, dinner and nightcap. Suffice it to say, I never officially declared it a “date” per say, but convinced my intentions were obvious and very much expecting her brain to put two and two together, I operated on the legitimate premise that, unquestionably, she knew. Surely it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure that one out – am I right or am I right? What I omitted to take into consideration was the fact that I was dealing with a woman, which in plain English translated into: it’s always freaking more complicated than it has to be.

Each rendezvous was like a murder investigation with my silly ass trying to pick up incriminating clues pointing to the fact that she digs me. Many scenarios kept racing through my head as I was meticulously dissecting her every word, gesture and tone delivery. I’d then rush back to the privacy of my car to use my cell phone to report to Kristina and spend an inordinate amount of time pestering her with the usual tangle of “what did she mean by this and what was she thinking by saying that?” questionings. This charade went on for a while and each time my friend would reassure my psycho maniac self that there was no chance on earth she couldn’t possibly have the hots for moi! And I believed her. How could I not? With now an ego that had been monumentally inflated (in ridiculously way out of proportion fashion) to match the size of China, I had become delusional enough to talk myself into thinking that the entire world wanted a piece of me.

Cut to a few weeks ago when Kristina and I ventured our socially awkward asses out for a happy hour escapade in West Hollywood and unexpectedly ran into her at one of those “Woman’s night” theme-party. Kate greeted me with a lingering full frontal hug followed by a persistent caress up and down my back. The minute she moved away, I called an emergency consultation with my girl to decrypt the hidden meaning of her obvious public display of affection, which I took as “she’s just very mucho beaucoup into me”.
I mean really, who on earth greets a friend like that? Friends don’t do that, right?
Kristina, whom I consider to be quite the inveterate expert in all complicated things lesbian related, unanimously concurred with me that indeed Kate was totally digging my chilly.
“Go for it M.”, she supportively encouraged.

Although still not fully certain I wasn’t about to pull the biggest suicidal move of my non-existent dating career, I, nevertheless, mustered the courage and developed a fake confidence to go for the kill. But when I turned around to approach her, I was literally floored to see Kate was passionately engaged in a steamy making out session with some butch-looking lesbo.

“Where the fuck did this bitch come from? And who the fuck is she?” I asked Kristina in utter shock. For God’s sake, I was the one who had been lobbying for that role – obviously to no avail.
“At least that answers the question! Now you know,” was all that Kristina could come up with to console me.

“Oh no she didn’t just say that?” I thought to myself.
How convenient! Of course now she was suddenly changing her tune. Whatever happened to the “It’s so obvious she totally likes you Mona” she assertively decreed a minute ago?
I’ve been royally duped and fabulously dumped – I think?

Having a few seconds to melodramatically ponder over the devastatingly tragic emotions and feelings of confusion welling up in me, I then decided to graciously take the higher road. So gauging the situation I reasoned (for lack of capitulating) it was only fair of me to totally blame Kristina for the royal fiasco, to bitterly resent Kate for clearly fancying “women who look like men”, and to absolutely passionately despise Miss Studly Stud whom, let’s be real here, irrefutably bruised my fragile sensitive ego.

What was I thinking? Evidently, too much! Obviously, while I am busy mentally mulling over a potential reaction, others are busy getting lots of action!