More Than Slightly Demented

I am a planner. I like to plan. It is what I do. In fact, as I sit here, I am planning my blog entry.

Short, witty beginning. Unexpected transition to relevant topic. Paragraph detailing week’s current neurosis. Reference to beginning humorous statement. Self-depreciating sign-off. The end.

Suffice to say, the unknown makes me nervous. Even when spontaneous events occur, I am most likely silently going through an action plan in my head, developing several different scenarios. Luckily, I’m not normally pessimistic so these are rarely worst case scenarios, but rather tend to be happily fanciful. (Except when I’m worrying about being hit and killed by an embarrassingly small car as I cross the street. Anyone who knows me realizes though that this has more to do with having a shameful obituary.)

“Hit and killed by a Ford Fiesta coasting along at 14.25 MPH, the Queen of Spades is survived by her family, three houseplants, blue ukulele and family’s flatulent French bulldog.”

I’ve recently been on two admirable first dates. I went on a fairly epic date with the peppy, slightly deranged man of the Dating Action Plan. We tourist watched. We drank beer at an Irish pub. We walked along the water. We ate overpriced Italian food. We let a clog salesman from Minnesota buy us drinks after correctly answering questions about the Prime Ministers of China and Canada. (Yes, this actually did happen.)

Date number two was with an equally obscure-trivia-spouting, dog-loving romantic interest. It included cheap Mexican food, a walk along a river, a glass of accidentally ordered champagne and an awkward kiss good-night. (I have come to conclusion that I am perpetually 12 as it always shocks me that anyone wants to kiss me. It usually goes somethin’ a-like this: “Oh hey, look! Something shiny! I had a good time toni-mwhwhwakahaaa(smooch)...Oh. (pause) I have no game.”) Awkward moment aside, I was really excited about this date and I thought it went really well. Both men asked me out again.

Wait. Continue waiting. Impatiently wait. Tap fingers. Ponder what happens between “Let’s go out again” and the subsequent lack of communication. Whip self into a pitiful frenzy about how one is going to die alone. Fabricate elaborate ruse in which one convinces landlord that you have to take your dearly departed aunt’s cat in order to have a feline companion in life of solitude.

Suffice to say, with my penchant for planning everything, the unknown in dating makes me extremely nervous and more than slightly demented. In the midst of my self-pitying frenzy of crazy last night in which I had convinced myself that both men had completely lost interest and disappeared, lo, an email. Oh, and an IM. Oh hey, a text. Oh. Wait, is that a missed call? Date number one wants to go on a grand date on Friday. And, I forgot date two was out of town, HELPING HIS GRANDPARENTS MOVE, for a couple days. He wants to go out again when he gets back.

Oh.

Well, damn. So, I am an unhinged control freak who doesn’t deal well with the concept of rejection. Let’s not even talk of actual rejection. Though it seems like letting myself off easy, puffy eyes and a headache of death will have to be punishment enough for my utter lameness. Post crazy tantrum, I had a moment of clarity about my bad dating habits and the cycle of insecurity I get myself into every time I start anew with this whole love business. So, I’ve managed to calm down a bit, promising myself I won’t talk myself down into the pit of despair again. I will also not try to over-plan and over-analyze everything.

Man, I suck at this.