Multi-date Update (Specifically: #6, #2 with #4, and #7)

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I’m highly discouraged. I’ve primped, primed and pouffed my way through more than a handful of men and nobody has yet to float my boat, as they say. Yes, I’ve had the sweet, the successful, the adventurous, the handsome, the brains — even the quirky and unique — but no one has weaved these together into a harmonious package that catches my eye as it twirls and sparkles in the store window.

Before I wallow in my self-prescribed misery, I owe each of the last three dates a paragraph or two to make their case…

The scene: Cafeteria in downtown Uptown on a busy Tuesday night. The dude: 36-year-old Rich — a man wafting of come-hither cologne and one-button-too-many-unbuttoned coolness. Why it would work: If I wanted to spend my days golfing, schmoozing and pretending I’m ten years younger than my real age, we’d be fantastic together! Why we just can’t work it out: Rich, who was rich (did I mention he was rich? He would let you know if I wasn’t making it clear), was just not my type. Interested in slick cars, coasting on well-timed career success and partying like it’s 1999, he was smoooooooooth. Intimately absorbed in keeping his tan just slightly orange enough as to let you know it was fake — and totally untrustworthy. Next, please!

The backdrop: Urban Eatery overlooking Lake Calhoun. The victim: Greg, another 36-year-old business owner, but this time in the beverage industry — blond, nice and extremely well-meaning, but entirely off-putting. Second-date-able?: Not so much. He started most of his sentences with “If we should date…,” seemed generations too old for me and the chemistry was roughly -325, if such a scale should exist. Give him a chance?: He assured me it was fine that he paid for meal (it was a business expense after all) and… and… well, I’m struggling to pull another positive adjective out of the wreckage of the date, to be honest. Let’s just say I politely sped up the date as fast as I could and exited gracefully as soon as the valet pulled up.

And last, but certainly not least: This one is exciting, right? She’s got a little spark going here and things may be looking up for Date #2 with Handsome Man #4. We close in on a beautiful Saturday night in Minneapolis, scrumptiously ripe for the picking. The gentleman: Brandon, of monster-truck fame, comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans and making the trek from Rosemount to South Minneapolis in said monster truck, which, yes, looks strikingly similar to the image I selected for his post, but think more red. Excitement, fun and possibilities: After abandoning a ill-fated attempt to take in the Pizza Luce block party, we sauntered over to Cafeteria for beers and French fries. We laughed and talked about anything and everything. He called me judgmental (I deserved it) and I told him to stop using the word “ain’t” (because it ain’t a word). I revisited my college youth as we headed to Williams for a nightcap. Although everyone there looked ready to head back to Calculus 201 in the fall, we roosted on the bar stools and drank beer out of over-sized glasses. And — I promise I will always be honest, dear readers — I kissed him. Right smack-dab on the mouth in the middle of a dirty and crowded bar. It was sweet, innocent and absolutely set us on a path of it’s-not-going-anywhere, for who starts their “how we met” stories with a peck in the middle of strangers? The aftermath: Ever the lightweight, I was down and out (and ready for bed) sooner than any civilized 28-year-old adult should allow herself to be, and the night wound down from there. And wishing and hoping and praying (okay, that’s being slightly over-dramatic), I have heard nary a word in 2.17 days.

So… exhausted from eight or so meet-and-greets in the last month, I am ironing, listening to Fitz and the Tantrums (download it now) and digging up the courage to post this intimate and oh-so-personal update for the world to see.

It’s an adventure, not a destination, right? Or… Hmm.

Numero Tres

Today was a bit tricky as I hadn’t yet had a date scheduled right after work. Let’s be honest — no one wants to see you after a day at the office. You’re crabby, hungry, wrinkled and have bad breath from that last Diet Coke you partook in at 3:00 p.m. To minimize the odds that my date would take one look at me and dash out the door Road-Runner style, I ducked downstairs to the scant-used first floor bathroom at work to freshen up before heading out. And, oh boy, there is nothing like an optimally-lit locker room mirror to make you feel super awesome about your makeup and outfit choices. Despite the lighting and one of the worst hair days I’ve had in months (come on, humidity, you’re killing me!), I popped an Advil, stuck with the flats I’d donned during the day and headed to Solera. (Side note: For those of us who work not-downtown, I cannot emphasize enough the difficulty it takes to get to happy hour in Minneapolis at 5:30 p.m. I’m just saying…)

But enough about me, let’s get to the juicy stuff. Karl with a K was a pleasant, 33-year-old who oversees the securities division at one of the major corporations downtown. He was smartly dressed, well-spoken, nicely groomed and clearly successful. After half a decade in the military, he worked in securities and IT in South Korea, Italy, Morocco and Germany. Along the way he picked up his Master’s in Computer Science and an MBA. Comfortably settled in a corner office, he now worked on important global initiatives.

We had very agreeable conversation and chatted in-depth about Minneapolis – the housing market (he owned multiple properties and I’m a lowly renter), restaurants (I was appalled he’d never been to Lucia’s) and the Twins’ ultra-lukewarm season ($9 mil for Nishioka and he’s done thismuch).

All in all, it was a fun-ish evening. He paid for the meal (including the lamb I will never eat again… poor fluffy, sweet baby sheep) and was very courteous. I found my way home from Minneapolis in the same way I always do — drive til you see a highway and figure out where to go from there… but there just wasn’t any spark.

And let me be honest here, a lot of it had to do with the fact that had I chosen to wear my fab high heels, I would have ousted him as the taller of the two of us. Ladies and gents, I officially suffer from an extreme case of heightism. I quote the infallibly-accurate Wikipedia when I say that the “greater reproductive success of taller men is attested to by studies indicating that taller men are more likely to be married and to have more children.” (See, science says it so I’m not a superficially ridiculous person.)

Yes, I’ll reluctantly trade in the dark and handsome (and smart) for blond and adorable (and intelligent), but I want my tall!

Slightly to moderated deflated after three strikes, I’m Spotifying the Infamous Stringdusters, quizzically wondering why I chose True Blood for my next Netflix DVD, and looking forward to a weekend filled with best friends, families and puppies.

Oh, and Mike #2…

P.S. Check out The New Yorker for an inquisitive and insightful look at online dating. For those of us taking the road less traveled, it’s a riveting read!

No. #2

Okay, he totally had potential. Andrew, a twentysomething who had just moved back to Minnesota after a few years on the road, was Date #2. After meeting with Patti, the Millionaire Matchmaker — also known as Gina from It’s Just Lunch — and further honing my (our) idea of the perfect man for me, I was excited for the next dude on the list. Andrew owned two companies, was exploring his pilot’s license and lived for the outdoors. He was looking for an intellectual woman with whom to settle down.

After another sweltering performance of getting ready in my god-forsaken furnace of an apartment, I tumbled into Urban Eatery. Literally. Shoes slipping every which way. I was desperately trying to regain my balance while approaching Mr. Guy — he who had chosen the humid Amazon on which to perch instead of the air-conditioned heaven of a leather indoor booth — when I descended upon Sk8ter Boi 2011.

Andrew, a world-renowned ROBOTICIST (I’m not kidding) stared me down with the sort of charm one might expect a six-year-old to exude. He had gone to college at the age of 14 and in the past fifteen years, had built himself into a sought-after mechanical roboticist. Discovery Channel was finalizing a reality series with him and he had just closed a deal with Chrystler the Friday before. Despite the desperately-needed haircut and wardrobe retool, he was gregarious, open, passionate and up for anything. Including miniature golf and root beer floats.

Teetering in my black pumps and slinky (and severely discounted) BCBG mini dress, I had to steer the conversation back towards mutual topics, hoping to avoid a night at Lava Links. We chatted about Minnesota (gotta love the people), the weather (isn’t it crazy?) and the lakes (totally beautiful and great for paddle-boarding).

The highlight of my evening, I must confess, was our waiter. He turned out to be my first love. We were, no joke, fifth-grade sweethearts and had skated the snowball together to the delight of the rest of our class a few decades ago. We had a blast catching up on his marriage, studies and job.

I headed home for edamame, the new Bon Iver CD and some apartmental organization, satisfied with another great experience – even if the chemistry wasn’t there.

Dear Andrew, may you find your motorcycle-loving, seat-of-her-pants lady chic! Dear me, isn’t this fun? Next up… former band member and MBA-toting Karl, and Mike, the smartie baseball-playing friend of a friend.

Cheers!