Spring Romance

I’m so excited! The first of my “bobslist” adventures has officially begun.

I have photos. I have a phone number. I have a description and an email, gods know how much of which is false.

Let me fill you in, dear reader. Although I’m busy with pre-production tasks on the movie (and in fact I’m still at work at 11:45 this cold rainy evening), I need to get out and see the city and have a little fun. I have no money to do this. Bobslist’s personals are full of men advertising that they have tons of money to take women out and show them a good time. It seems no matter their personalities, looks, careers, or interests, we’re going to be a good match on at least one level: the financial.

Also, I think it’ll make for fantastic blogging, and down the road, a great book. I’m not gold-digging—it’s just dinner. I’m usually seen as interesting enough to buy dinner for. Some people have even done it more than once. If the guy gets handsy, I’ll look to Scheherazade for guidance. Yet another boon to being a writer of fiction—one can write an escape hatch into any situation, one can talk one's way through to a virgin dawn.

My Bobslist Romeo Number One is a lawyer in his thirties from la-la-land. His pictures are hilarious—one of him in a tux with a serious look on his face kneeling on a suburban lawn in front of a bougainvillea and a rainspout; one of him on a boat baring his admittedly buff abs and shoulders in a ridiculously hyper-masculine pose. (His face is not so charming, especially to a girl accustomed to seeing hot actors' headshots day in and day out.)

He tells me he’s looking for someone to spend time with who doesn’t make demands—he’s too busy with work, international travel, and his many friends to have a relationship. He adds that he is trained in massage.

Ok.

I’m too busy enjoying the lovely relief of being single to have a relationship (JJD and I were discussing last night the joys of road dogs and rain dogs and having a boy who just goes home afterward—especially when home is across the country or across the pond). But I hesitate to believe that Romeo’s massage training goes beyond ineptly smoothing at a girl’s shoulders before gunning straight for T & A. I suppose it’s better to call him Casanova instead of Romeo. Romeo means romance. Casanova means something different. Though something tells me this Bobslist guy is about as smooth and seductive as a Russian tank.

Not that I plan to find out. Dinner and a drink in a restaurant where my friends lurk on the other side of the bar, sure. Massage? No thanks. After looking at his photo, I’m about as sexually attracted to this guy as I might be to a vat of lime gelatin. Maybe less so. The thing is, he looks like a hilarious story waiting to happen, and it's time to experience his particular brand of ridiculousness.

Luckily for my laziness and crazy work schedule, I have already made sure to inform Comrade Bobslist that my work schedule was such that I could never make plans more than one day in advance, and that even late-made plans might change if an actor freaked or if we missed too many shots in a day. So I don’t have to actually call him until I’m good and ready. And I can always bail at the last second or get an urgent text message ten minutes into the first cocktail.

Dating without the urge toward an actual relationship is brilliant, fun, pressure-less. Who cares what I say or do, how I act, what ungodly things come out of my mouth? Chances are slim I'll ever see any Bobslist guy a second time. I could belch and fart and blow my nose on my sleeve. I could talk for four hours about the discography of Bette Midler. I could get shit-faced on bourbon and start doing a tabletop Ethel Merman impression and never feel the slightest twinge of regret.

Fantastic.