A Girl Thing

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to go on a blind date orchestrated by a co-worker. After giving her the twenty question quiz about this man, I agree to go on the meet-and-greet. Mind you, I have never been on a blind date before. It's so bad, I acquire a sinus infection.

Physicality:  Asian man in his 30s. Occupation: Physical Therapist. Qualifications: Good sense of humor, laid back, very nice. This is the sales pitch I receive.  I can dig it…. The date is set up for that Friday at 7pm. I work third shift; my spare time is between sleeping hours and going in for my next 11 hour shift. 7pm is my waking hour in which I need to caffeine it up. Where do you meet in the late evening before beginning an over- night shift?   I relay the message to meet at Dunkin Donuts over coffee. He shows up with my co-worker and her then boyfriend—a classic double date in a community full of limitations.

 The conversations on the date are not intellectually stimulating like I assume it would for a Physical Therapist. In fact, I see how the outback mentality has made him narrow-minded, and appear to fall in the category of the less fortunate. I am able to look beyond that for a moment. When asked his age, he says 45. Go fertilize yourself...My dad is 50. My heart skips a beat. But, I am open-minded and look beyond the age factor for a minute. At the end of the night he takes my number and wants to know if I’d be interested in going bowling sometime. To be nice, I agree.  I gave him permission to call. Thank God he didn’t. And… for the sinus infection. He tells the then boyfriend, “I’d fuck her.”  

 Gulp. Hand over-the-mouth-exaggeration. Seriously? A tornado brews in my head. Is that supposed to make me feel good? At the very least I am attractive enough to get the job done.  I’m thought of as a piece of meat. “There’s another easy American!” I’m positive that’s the mind-set since my ex-Tanzanian, boyfriend once divulged the easy American girl stereotype to me in a conversation. My response, “You cannot generalize an entire population…It’d be like me saying because you are from Africa, you have AIDS.” Let’s just say he got my drift.  I didn't put my labor of love into school and analyzing relationships, stereotypes, and stigmas to be treated like a doormat. Are you kidding me? If I wanted to get laid: I’d make googly eyes at a drunk on Main Street, or strut myself on the street corner of Prostitute and Whore.

Two days later, I come down with this horrible sinus infection. It’s been the warmest winter in New York State since the 1800s when forecasters started scrutinizing statistics. Unusually-high 80-degree weather in the month of March causes a ripple in the pollen count. It starts with a sneeze, then the drippy nose. The clogged nostril. I take 12 hour allergy medicine to dry up my snot-clocker. Liquid crack might actually work better though. For a couple days, I can breathe normally. Then out of nowhere…BLAM-O snot drains in the back of my throat creating this horrendously mucousy cough. I think I'm on the verge of death. I can’t breathe. I cough so hard I throw up. I'm wheezing. It’s amazing how much snot I've accumulated. Is someone sitting on my chest? My head hurts. My eyes hurt. My stomach hurts. My pisser is like a synced hose. Pinched one minute to cut off the flow then the pressure build up springs a leak. Vaginal leakage. An immediate solution is to wear a maxi pad. Now, I am not the type to use pads for my period. Since I discovered the tampon in the eighth grade I’ve been hooked ever since. Wearing a pad for the first time in forever is weird enough. But, to use a pad my mom has—a boat that safe-guards against leaks.  It elongates from my coochy-coo all the way to my arse. Can someone see the bulge in the back of my hinder as much as I can feel it? Oh Mylanta, it’s stiffer than the old Stayfree brand from the mid ‘90s.The result: pad rash on my hoo-hoo. Not to mention I have a bladder the size of a pregnant woman in her second trimester from surviving on liquid diet for days.  The blind date can't get any worse.  

Two days after drugging myself full of OTC’s to relieve that mucousy cough whilst Dad gets prison shanked for his latest DWI by spending weekends in County,  I take my step-mom to her parents for Easter dinner. We participate in many intelligent conversations ranging from politics while being politically correct to who the ideal golf athlete is to win the Master’s in Augusta, Georgia this year. Out of left field my grandmother becomes match-maker by suggesting that this year is dedicated to finding me a good man to wed. She’s lucky I didn’t drop the F-Bomb on her right then and there. Instead, I look over my shoulder, to my hip, cool, aunt, and say, “What is this…An arranged-marriage kind of family?”  I proceed to inform them of the induced sinus infection blind date. I keep it vague to respect my grandparent’s modesty and to deter any physical reaction to my inflamed innards dying with embarrassment and say, “He wasn’t my cup of tea.”

Am I sending off pheromones to people both young and old that I need a man? Is there an aroma about me that advertises as an arranged-marriage needed? Is it because I am nearly 30, and I am still single? Is it because my biological clock is ticking and if I want kids, I need to start reproducing right now? Or is it because I haven’t started my career yet? It’s not mandatory to want to settle down. Last I knew Gloria Steinem did not undo feminism and the right to exercise independent womanhood.  So, is it me, or is it a girl thing?