So this is what I think happened.

It's not that I'm lazy. I'm more high-strung than anything. It's more the fact that...well...

I GOT THE PROMOTION.

To sum up, I essentially feel like the Einstein of accounting right now. It's definitely not laziness. It's that I've been working like crazy. So much so that I haven't had time for a single date for the past month and a half.

Here's a summary of the primarily un-notable events of my life:

(1) Summer is most definitely here. No chance of snow for the next several months.
(2) I've read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, and Mark has spent the past several weeks trying to convince me that I'm a Libertarian. I'm starting to believe him.
(3) I went to see Knocked Up at River East Theatres downtown after work one night. WITH JAY. I'll elaborate on that shortly.
(4) I drank three glasses of wine tonight and am feeling, what I like to call, cheerfully tipsy at the moment (which I plan to exploit as the excuse for any incoherency you note in this post). I really like the Savignon Blanc I've been drinking. Maybe I'll become a wino.

There. The biggest problem with documenting your life in a diary is the fact that it mostly just highlights how very mundane life is. Life is spreadsheets and multi-vitamins. Not martinis and sex.

In regards to (3). That's right. Jay and I have moved beyond the mere co-commuter relationship. The week before last we were making idle morning chatter on the el and our conversation veered off towards the cinema. And we both said that we wanted to see Knocked Up. And then he suggested that we go after work one night. And then we did. And I totally thought IT WAS A DATE. And it turns out it wasn't because when we went out for drinks afterward, he casually mentioned his girlfriend.

And I casually tried to pretend as if I'd always known he'd had a girlfriend (who's a doctor in the process of doing her residency by the way), and was aware of the fact that our movie outing WASN'T A DATE. And to be honest. I think that I felt intense relief more than anything. Mostly because I really do want to take a shot at not dating for awhile. Self-inflicted celibacy is so en vogue right now.

Also, I think Jay and I could really become good friends without all of the romantic confusion that goes along with dating. I think he's funny.

I’m not entirely certain about how the interview went. On the one hand, the questions were all of the difficult to answer variety (e.g. – describe a time you failed, etc.), but I think I did an alright job with my answers. After I was finished meeting with all of the various interviewers, though, I felt exhausted and vaguely traumatized. And the traumatization physically manifested itself in the form of armpit sweat. Gross. I know. I’m generally not a sweaty person, but I got to experience the treat of being one for the rest of that afternoon.

The HR representative said that I should hear back from them one way or the other by the end of this week. I’m trying not to think about it too much in case I get my hopes up, discover that I failed, subsequently feel crushed and spiral into a terrible depression. Or maybe just feel sorry for myself. So my plan of approach is to maintain a fatalistic mindset in regards to the entire situation.

Which means, enough mulling for me for now.

At least until I find out. And possibly during moments of weakness throughout the next few days.

I ran into Jay again this morning. (You recall my red-headed co-commuter.) He finally introduced himself.

It went like this.

Me standing outside of the Wellington station fumbling frantically through my bag to find my el pass. Right as I victoriously locate it in the depths guarded by my laptop, I heard someone say hello.

I glanced up to see who it was, despite the fact that I already knew.

“How was your weekend?” he asked as we trudged up the stairs.

“Good. Yours?”

“Fun. I went to the Cubs game yesterday.”

“Hey – I was there. I mean. Not in the stadium, but at a bar across the street. I was hanging out with some friend’s in the beer garden at Murphy’s.”

“The weather was awesome, wasn’t it?”

“It was. You got a little sunburned,” I pointed out.

He touched his nose, “I know. It looks a lot better than it did yesterday, too.”

The train came, and he followed me into the front car.

We both leaned against the Plexiglas partitions that surround the two sides of the door. Across from each other. We were quiet for a few minutes, and I gazed to my left out the window at the blurred trees and parks and buildings that reside along the tracks between my stop and the Fullerton station.

“I’m Jay by the way,” he suddenly said.

I looked at him.

“Elizabeth.”

I reached out to shake, and he laughed at me before extending his arm to grasp my hand in his own.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood today,” he pointed out.

“I am.”

“Me too.”

We were both quiet for several more seconds. This time I was trying to think of something to say.

“Where do you work?” I asked.

He said the name of a law firm.

“So you’re an attorney then?” I pointed out inanely.

“Yeah.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s pretty boring.”

I laughed.

“How about you?”

“I’m an accountant.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s pretty boring,” I shrugged, “but I’m the sort of person that enjoys really boring things.”

“I know what you mean.”

We were quiet again as we crossed the River on our approach to the Loop, and our respective destinations. I got off at Washington, and smiled my goodbye.

As I exited, I heard him tell me that he would see me tomorrow.

Which is part of the reason why, in the midst of my walk across the few blocks between the station and the office, it dawned on me that my Monday had gotten off to a good start.

Dear god. I’m so excited. I just got a call from HR telling me that I got an interview for that promotion I applied for and they want to schedule it as soon as possible. Preferably for TOMORROW. I’ve got to figure out what the actual description is of the skills listed as requirements for the new role, so that I can make sure I brag about the right things.

I’ve officially decided. (Judge figuratively lowers his gavel.) I’m taking some time off from dating. Let's say three months.

I went out with Dave the Pharmaceutical Salesman last Friday as planned. He was nice, and the date wasn’t terrible.

“No really. It was okay,” I said to my sister on the phone later that evening.

“‘Okay’ in the dating world is just as bad as awful. Either way you've wasted your time.”

“I didn’t waste my time,” I interrupted, “It was good practice, and the conversation wasn’t awkward or anything. The restaurant was fantastic.”

“Where’d you guys go again?”

“Republic. It’s that new sushi place downtown that’s owned by those people that own Rise and Shine.”

“So what was bad about it. Was he ugly?”

“Be nice, Edith Ann.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“That’s your name.”

“I go by Edie. So then. He was ugly?”

“Not at all. He had really nice blue eyes. And I liked the way he was built. He was imposing in a way that made you feel kind of safe, but not in the over the top body builder sort of way. Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” she responded dismissively, “So what was wrong?”

I mulled this over for several seconds.

“He kind of seemed…”

“Seemed, what?”

“I guess he seemed kind of self-centered.”

“In what way?”

“Well. We ordered a bottle of champagne at the beginning of dinner because that’s what the waiter suggested. Then halfway through the meal, Dan suddenly decided we should order a bottle of sake.”

I paused to take a sip of the mint tea I’d just poured into a coffee mug and burned the roof of my mouth.

“Okay,” Edie said encouragingly.

“So I told him that I’d only really tried sake once, and I hadn’t liked it at the time.”

“I was there. You thought it tasted like vodka mixed with cigarette ashes.”

“It was nasty,” I agreed, “But I said that I’d be willing to try it again. So the waiter gave us a few suggestions that were of the lighter/fruitier variety of sake’s because he thought I would like those better than the stronger flavored ones.”

“Okay.”

“Well. Dan insisted that we get a bottle of the stronger flavored one.”

“That’s kind of rude.”

“I thought so too. Then when the check came. I picked it up and offered to pay for dinner…and he let me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s not that I have a problem with buying dinner,” I interrupted, “I mean I know that the guy always paying for the first date is an outdated tradition, and that I probably make just as much money as he does, but after the whole sake thing. It just kind of seemed...rude. And he didn’t even argue for a second. He just let me pay. And, again, I didn’t mind paying, but I kind of did. Do you know what I mean?”

“Who picked the restaurant?”

“He did.”

“He should've paid. My rule is – if you pick the restaurant, you pay for dinner.”

“I don’t know,” I rambled, “is there some sort of dating etiquette guide out there that I could refer to? Maybe if he’d just argued a little.”

“I think he should have insisted on paying for the dinner.”

We chatted idly about family stuff for a few minutes longer before getting off the phone. That Saturday, I felt really tired so I didn’t go out. In fact, I lazed around and watched Saturday Night Live for the first time in like six years.

***
This weekend I went out to dinner with these two women that live next door. They’re both single, and we went to a dive Mexican restaurant down the street. We stayed for a long time after we were finished eating and drank from what seemed like a bottomless pitcher of margarita. Then our waitress insisted we all do shots of tequila. It was a lot of fun, and we all kept asking each other why we hadn’t hung out before.

Maybe I should take a break from dating.

I just got back from grabbing a sandwich at the Potbelly’s down on Madison with Mark. During a pause in the midst of our idle chatter, Mark suddenly asked.

“Is that Kelly chick still married to that one guy?”

I swallowed wrong, started coughing and had to take a prolonged sip of banana milkshake to clear the debris from my throat so that I could speak.

“You mean Ray? Of course. They just got married like eight months ago.”

“She’s hot.”

I shrugged and answered nonchalantly, “I agree. She’s gorgeous.”

“I like her boobs.”

“They’re nice,” I said then took another oversized bite of my italian sub.

We both chewed for several seconds in contemplative silence. I assume that Mark was busy thinking about Kelly’s boobs.

“What are you up to this weekend? Wanna go out for drinks after work tonight?” he finally asked tossing the rejected end piece of his turkey sub down into the red plastic basket.

“Where at?”

“What do you mean where at? You’ve still gotta ask where? The place. The place we’ve established as THE place we always meet for after work happy hours.”

“We’ve only gone there once.”

“I thought we all agreed that it’s the place we’ve been searching for.”

“I don’t know why we’re arguing,” I responded in a faux-weary voice, “I can’t go anyways. I have a date tonight.”

Mark picked up my bag of chips and demanded, “With who?”

“Dave the Pharmaceutical Salesman.”

“Should I know who that is?”

“He’s this friend of a friend at work. It’s a blind date.”

“That sounds terrible.”

I smiled.

“We should go out on Saturday,” I offered, “I think my sister and her friends are going to Hye Bar. We could get a big group together.”

“You could invite Kelly.”

I considered this.

“It’s weird, but things have been awkward between me and her since Jim and I broke up.”

Mark rolled his eyes.

“Girls are so bad at being friends.”

“That’s true,” I mused, “just like men are so bad about being pedophiles.”

“That isn’t an apt comparison.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re talking about a very small subset of men, which means you can’t classify that as a gender stereotype.”

“So you’re saying that women are predominantly bad at being friends.”

“Not predominantly. The entire female population. I think it might have something to do with hormones.”

“You’re an idiot,” I retorted.

Mark reached over the table and picked up my milkshake. He shook the cup’s base back and forth to determine whether or not there was any left and then took a sip.

“You should invite Kelly out to Hye Bar on Saturday,” he reiterated, “I like her boobs.”

Three things.

One. I still haven’t heard back from human resources about whether or not I’m going to get an interview for that Finance Manager position. I submitted my resume on Monday. I wonder how long it will take.

Two. I agreed to go out with Dave the Pharmaceutical Salesman tomorrow night. We’re going to meet for drinks at an, as of yet, undetermined wine bar. We spoke for a little bit on the phone last night, and he seems nice.

Three. I’m ignoring Jim’s calls. He’s called four times since last Thursday. Kelly says that he’s been hanging out at her and Ray’s place a lot during the week.

This morning as I approached the entrance of the Wellington El station, the guy handing out the Redeye newspaper asked me if I’d buy him a coffee. My wallet was buried somewhere in the depths of my commuter bag, and I fumbled around for several of my carefully timed commuting seconds trying to locate it. Right as I was handing the guy a dollar, the brown line rumbled past over my head.

I’d missed my freaking train.

In my little world (populated by me and composed primarily of a four mile radius where I reside as the center of culture, intellect, celebrity and general awesomeness), this instance alone disproved all existing theories related to karmic realignment. I was going to be fifteen minutes late for my morning meeting.

I was contemplating all of this bitterly as I trudged up the stairs, when I suddenly heard someone cheerfully utilize my newest nickname.

“What’s up ponytail girl?”

I turned around to see that the red-headed guy from the other day was walking up the stairs behind me.

And then I tripped.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. If anything, it was more of a stumble than an actual fall, because I managed to catch myself by grabbing hold of the handrail.

“Whoa. You okay?” he asked.

His tone implied that he was concerned, but when I glanced up I noted that he was sporting an amused expression. This whole situation wasn’t helping my (already ill) humor.

“How are you?” I asked to change the subject.

“I’m good.”

He had given up all pretenses of polite worry and was now grinning directly down at me. He looked like he was about to start laughing. When we reached the platform, I waved goodbye and walked away to lean against the railing at the southernmost end. Then I pretended to be really absorbed in reading the Redeye, which is funny since the Redeye reads like it was written by a staff of pop-culture enthused sixth graders. The articles bemuse me. I usually only get it for the Sudoku puzzle.

***

In the elevator this morning at work, some woman told me she’d heard it might snow this weekend.

Now. I get it that Chicago weather during the spring months is -- at its very best -- erratic, but snow?! That’s so disheartening after the temperate weekend/beginning-of-the-week weather we’d been enjoying.

In addition to being appalled by this, I was twenty (not fifteen) minutes late for my meeting because I had to run by the Walgreens in the building next door to purchase a new pair of pantyhose to replace the pair that I was wearing. The earlier stumble on the stairs had resulted in a run that began at my knee and extended up the center of my thigh in a highly unaesthetic manner.

Wait a second. I just thought of something. How come people refer to pantyhose as a pair? A pair implies two separate, but identical (sometimes in a mirror-image sense) pieces. A ‘pair of pantyhose’ is comprised of one continuous piece of fabric shaped into a shrunken looking mock-up of the lower half of your body. I wonder why we utilize the term ‘pair’ as a descriptor. I also wonder if I’ll ever start worrying about important things instead of items that relate strictly to the minutiae of my life.