Have I gone on a date with a guy and never spoken to him again? Yes. Have I fooled around with a guy I wasn't necessarily interested in? Yes. I'm guilty of these offenses. I will also cop to prolonging bad dates just to have a great story. But the key, I think, is that I go into each new date with a glimmer of hope that this one will be "the one" (whatever "the one" means is a whole.'nother.story).
A couple of weeks ago, I was getting ready for a date that seemed especially promising. I'd been nervous and extra anxious, worrying over what to wear and whether to use the straightener or the curling iron to do my hair. This guy was handsome, funny, musical, grew up in a lovely home, had an interesting job in the arts and our sole phone conversation had gone very well. But I've been on enough first dates to know that things don't always work out the way they seem to on paper. There've been too many surprises for me to get my hopes up. (Sometimes it works the other way: a guy I'm not so sure about ends up being a lot of fun. Obviously, a much pleasanter surprise than the alternative.) I texted C on my way out the door, expressing my exasperation at myself for, despite knowing better, being excited. His response summed it up pretty well: "aww. hopelessly hopeful". Me, in a texty nutshell.
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