Blown to the back-burner by baldy

I forgot how humiliating dating is.

I shaved my legs five mornings in a row, godamnit, and he didn't call. I wore "special reserve" panties every day, only to drop them in the hamper at night - and not lose them in crumpled sheets as intended. Each time I checked my voicemail or email inbox my self confidence diminished. I got fatter. I became less talented and less interesting. I craved red wine more. I am thinking of having some right now.

When I caught myself hiding in a corner at the Indigo bookstore reading, "He's Just Not That Into You", I knew it was bad.

The first few months of my single life seemed designed to feed my ego. Every day was a bloody adventure, full with dating prospects. And, I oozed confidence. Oozed it. Monogamy? Forget it. I've proven more than once that it's not part of my skill set. My main concern was how to run last night's date out of my house before noon and get on with my day.

I had a tall, handsome long-distance Latin American boyfriend on reserve. I had a courter visiting from my past, to lavish me with attention and affection. And, I had this chivalrous, snappy dressing musician batting his thick lashes at me in cafes. All three, at the same time. I was on top.

What was it about Mr. Dapper that made him irresistable to me? His looks. His confidence. The laughter. That, and his great, unconvential date ideas. We'd spend afternoons drinking Turkish coffee in cafes I'd never previously noticed. We'd go to the library to look at travel books and compare notes. He focussed on me when we were together, but never offered me any sense of security. I became addicted to winning him, to having him win me. Eventually, I forgot that he's balding under those goddamn dapper hats.

The first time we had sex - right before I was set for a month-long absence - he made me feel like an amateur. I'm too unfamiliar with the Kama Sutra to say whether we covered all its positions, but clearly, he'd been studying. The next morning, I called my girlfriends and raved that I'd been properly rogered. By a bald man. It felt like a coming-of-age. They wanted details. I could hardly find the words.

When I returned, there was little left of the romance I'd by now idealized. It took him two days to call me. When he finally did, he made no certain effort to see me. In fact, I wasn't sure why he'd bothered to contact me at all. My heart sank a little deeper every day. By the time he called to arrange a breakfast date, my heart had sunken so low that my head could no longer communicate with it.

Uncomfortable when he arrived to pick me up, and uncomfortable as we seated ourselves at the diner, I consoled myself that my twitchiness was part of my charm. Reassure me, my brain was hissing. Tell me you like me, or let me go drown my sorrows, I wanted to say. Instead, I talked about everything that didn't matter. Afterward, we strolled through the park, and before we said good-bye, he kissed me. And, he said he would call.

He did call. He called when he was at work, or already busy. I know he really is busy. His band was recently signed. He has a million and forty projects on the go. He is a scenester. A Kung Fu master. A sportsman. He is not, however, my date.

Hopefully, my heart will reinitiate contact and my head can tell it what to do next. Until then, I'll wait for his call and hate myself for it. I'll pretend I don't care, until it's true. I'll continue to date the others. And, I'll mutter under my breath, "Blown off by a bald man." It's all I've got on him.