Summer Trough

The dating situation just gets worse and worse. I think back to being five years old in a toy store and pointing to every toy and piece of candy. What do you want? I want it all. In the end, those who want it all get nothing.

The latest travesty (or tragedy) is that I've gotten attached to the 35-year-old swimmer, with whom at the start I'd been swimming and doing breakfast. Sometime in the last four months, I developed a crush for his elusiveness, his six pack and his green eyes, only to be crushed with the "I only see you as a friend" email. The girlfriends tell me that I only want unavailable men.

The other day I went to talk with the shrink again, and complained bitterly of the Indian Buddhaman. He nods off as I speak, takes out the prescription pad, and just asks, "Do you need more of XYZ?" He doesn't seem to listen when I tell him that things are going south instead of north. In anger, I told him that it must be hard to remember who I am given all of the files that he has. Bastard.

If a pill could solve the problem, I'd be a happy woman, because, as I told the shrink woman, I've had it. In the past several months, I've been blindly dating men who clearly are bad for me. It's like going after the Ben and Jerry's all the time.

Over the weekend, there was the 47-year-old poor artist with rotting teeth and pot-holed skin, who tried to stick his tongue down my throat on date two. Yes, he was colorful and interesting but I had no respect for him. None whatsoever. Then there's the quiet Ph.D. student who asked me to coffee, and when I called to confirm, he said, "Oh, why did you call again?"

My respect for men overall is on the decline; why can't they be more clear, if they say they want to do something, why don't they do it? I do take it personally, but that is me: I just do. And I've lost patience.

Maybe it's the problems with living in a big city, or the stresses involved with it. Maybe I need a break from it all. It's no longer fun.