We are on the verge of 2011, and our society is still flooded with double standards. The idea of what’s considered, “acceptable,” depending on if you have a penis or a vagina between your legs, kind of makes me want to laugh, cry and punch a hole in the wall all at the same time. For example: The Stage Five Clinger.
This is a scarce bread of men , or as I like to call them, The Oh Shit, I’m About To Turn 30, My Clock Is Ticking. I Have To Find A Woman To Produce My Offspring. But I am warning you now, the numbers will double by the end of the year.
This past weekend, I met one of, “them.” I don’t think more than five words were exchanged before his tongue was shoved down my mouth, but I thought to myself, I’m drunk, and you’re kind of cute, so why not?
After about an hour, we headed over to another bar, and as the drinks continued to flow, so did the ridiculous lines.
Apparently, when two people have a passion for California and running, it means you should get married on the spot. “Nicole, we should run to San Diego, get married and open up a surf spot right on the beach.” I laughed, because deep down I knew he was kidding, (I hope). I get it, we were both drunk, or at least I was, but if I ever said that to a guy that I just met, he would have had his running shoes on, and he would getting cozy in someone else’s vagina.
We spent the rest of the night making out and awkwardly joking about our, “future” together… then I found out he was 29. That’s right, 29, with his shit together. In other words, I’m looking for the real deal.
He kept going on about wanting to take me out to dinner, so I figured why not give him my number? I love food, and he has a kick-ass personality.
When I woke up the following morning, there was no alcohol left in my system to impair my judgment.
Later in the day, I received a text message from my clinger saying, “San Diego, it was great meeting you last night. Let me know when you are free for dinner.” My heart sank for about .5 seconds because I knew I wasn’t interested… and because I was kicking myself in the ass for not giving my number to the hottie that helped me clean up all the beer bottles I knocked over as I was leaving my friend’s shore house.
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