Sha la la la la la
Don’t be scared
You better be prepared
Go on and kiss the
girl
I blame Disney.
From the age of two, I’ve been indoctrinated with
unrealistic expectations of romance, love and life in general. I mean honestly,
think of what I could’ve done with the hours I spent attempting to learn the secrets
of my dog’s double life as a leader in the canine network (far too many times
watching 101 Dalmatians) or scrupulously inspecting every ditch and pothole,
convinced that one of them would lead me to the Wonderland.
Had I only channeled that energy into something productive,
like learning quantitative finance?
Or mastering a cartwheel.
I could be a famous circus accountant. How many of those do
you see?
It’s all about making yourself unique in this economy.
Cinderella, Snow
White, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid…
LIES! Walt, you have some explaining to do because you are
the one who influenced my informative years and I feel ill equipped to deal
with the situations I’ve encountered.
I want my money back.
I went on my trail-running date on Saturday.
I’m still alive.
But I’m no longer classified as Caucasian. I’m not
crustacean.
Because my face has been (and I’m predicting will be forever)
bright red since Saturday (Which I suppose is better than the orange hue it had
been taking on. I really need to stop eating pumpkin and carrots)
Pre-date, my room was the crime scene re-enactment of a bomb
going off in Lululemon. I own most
of
Lululemon and half of Dick’s Sporting Goods athletic apparel. And you want to
know how many outfits looked flattering on Saturday?
None.
I contemplated going naked. (That would’ve made a great
impression. Hello!) But eventually I found something to throw on. As you might have gueesed, I didn’t really have a love life before I lost all of my weight. I had
never been on a date or had a first kiss. Ergo my social interaction skills
with the opposite sex are still in the developmental phase. (I’m in beta
testing if you will.)
So even with the perfect running outfit that said, “I’m
athletic and serious, still feminine and girly but I can probably outrun you,
however, if there is a bug I will scream and run away,” (that’s a lot of
responsibility for a little pair of shorts) I still felt as if I was going to
DIE before my date. My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, my face
instinctively started flushing and getting all hot.
I was a hot mess.
I am still not used to people seeing the “thin Cecelia” and
so I tend to act very quiet and shy, I tiptoe around people, act too eager to
please and fade into the background. But that’s pretty much the best way to
ruin a first date. Especially when your date is a trail run.
No one but you and him to pass the time.
The occasional deer or lizard. But they aren’t that chatty.
CECELIA! YOU WILL DIE
ALONE WITH A CAT NAMED NORMAN IF YOU DON’T GET IT TOGETHER!
“Ready to have your butt handed to you?” I jokingly asked
(while mentally screaming, ”Please don’t hate me, I’m attempting to joke
because otherwise I’ll shake and cry, or faint”)
“Yeah, you do that Short Stuff. How tall are you, like two
inches above a legal dwarf?”
And we were off! It was a great day and I think since I was
engaged in running and watching my surroundings, the conversation was so much
easier because you know, my brain wasn’t screwing it up.
He is a solid foot taller than me, so
attempting to look at him while talking involved deciding how much I liked my
eyesight and if I was willing to risk blindness by staring into the sun (who
needs to see anything?)
Nine miles later we were done and hanging out by the river
(read panting, and trying not to dry-heave).
Amazingly, my nerves had yet to
ruin it, and I was calm and relaxed.
Then it got very very quiet.
So he tried to kiss me and my social skills evaporated and I
freaked out. I tried to sort of turn my head out of reflex shock and then I
changed my mind and overcorrected. And I ended up smacking my eye on his chin.
I now have a black eye.
Hi, I’m Awkward Pants Magee. Nice to meet you.
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