So, I wrote a new chapter for the Nice Ass story last night. Two chapters, actually. You remember that story, right? The one where I wrote about my experiment in the dating scene and changed the names, dates, and some of the facts to keep it all a secret? Odds are good, according to my traffic statistics, that it’s the reason you started reading this at all. So, anyway, I wrote two chapters last night.
The problem is that they come well after the last chapter that I’d written, and I have no idea what to write to fill that gap. Three years in a serious relationship will screw with your dating life, let me tell you. This missing “in-between time” is a little bit sensitive, and it’s so tempting to gloss it all over. But I can’t do that. I’m not really a gloss-over kind of guy. Those three years have changed me in ways I did not think I could be changed. I will give you one example.
A couple of weeks ago, I went on a date. I didn’t mean to, really. I had decided a week before the date that it was time to move on and, at the very least, start flirting with people again. This flirting landed me a number on the first afternoon, at the grocery store. (Really. It was in the cereal aisle.) And because it was a grocery store person, and not some faceless stranger in a club, I felt obligated to give her a call and set up the date.
So we went out for dinner. (Those of you who remember older posts, might recall that I used to advocate drinks as a first date, not dinner. This is relevant.) We sat down and chatted for probably five minutes before the waiter even came to our table. The conversation was light, witty, and enjoyable. Then she ordered a glass of wine, and for the rest of the date, I felt like I might throw up at any minute.
I used to be drink at least once a week. I know that it’s acceptable to drink alcohol. I know that it’s a fairly common occurrence. I know that ordering ONE glass of wine should not set off whatever alarm system I’ve installed in myself. But there I was, like some post-traumatic stress sufferer, deep in the middle of a flashback. What the hell can I do to fix that?
On a lighter note, a couple of months ago I went out with CSI-Guy and his wife to a big alcohol-soaked house party, and got tore-up drunk while surrounded by other people drinking. I don’t know why it was fine then. Something is broken inside my brain.
So back to the point of this… how can I write about the events that caused this shift? I suppose I could drop out all the facts and play the blame-game, but I don’t believe that’s way to go about it. First, I don’t really want to air out that kind of laundry again. But more importantly, I’m not sure it’s anyone’s fault but mine. I knew the facts going into that relationship and ignored them. (Worse, I think I honestly believed it was “a phase.”) So to point a finger would be pretty asinine.
Maybe I have to gloss it over. Just write a chapter that says “And three years went by…”