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Wander Lost Blog is about the journey of A., a hapless 30something who has lived in Chicago, San Diego, LA, and currently resides in NYC.
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Thanks Gypsy Fortune Teller Lady.

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At a Halloween party recently, a cute guy talked me into talking to a tarot card reader. Now I know better than listen to this crap 98% of the time, but for some reason (perhaps given my recent spat of all sorts of bad karma…or maybe it was the vodka) I decided to give Gypsy Fortune Teller Lady a try.

As the tarot card reading went on, it was like an accident unfolding slowly in front of you: it just kept getting worse and worse. My first card represented that I was very frustrated with my love life (I think I’ve managed to kiss 3 guys this year and I liked none of them…dammit). Then there was a card with a man looking up at 3 heads in the sky and that represented that you and your family are at odds (not surprising thanks to meddling mom’s recent behavior).  Then there was some sad guy in the field reaping and sowing which signified my job was very taxing and it was only going to get worse (yay). I actually asked her for outlook on that one and she said that it would be a long time to see my efforts to pay off.

Once she gave me the Devil card, I concluded that no good would come of this and stopped listening. Or the vodka set in and I can’t remember the conclusion. Either way, it was the world’s worst tarot card reading.

dating, single woes and married foes

Thanks Mom.

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My parents are a bit…how should I put this? Old School.

As in they got married to each other at 20 (her) and 22 (him). My sister got married at 24. So you can imagine how single, down-on-her-luck me looks to this marrying young family. Having courted in the pre-Internet age, they really don’t understand the complexities of dating in the 21st century.

They also have a not-so-secret agenda to convince me to move back to Chicago — cold, gray Chicago where I’m 99% sure I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (look it up, it’s a thing) 9 months of the year.

This means that for my 4-5 visits to Chicago a year (by the way, I think that they should recognize that is a very impressive amount of plane tickets at $200 – $400 a pop), there is usually some dinner party (yes — dinner party. I told you that they are Old School) or event where the goal is to make Chicago seem like the best place ever and I’m missing out on so much. My recent trip to Chicago in October featured such an event.

My father is a member of a prestigious men’s club that hosted a rackets weekend (did you know that rackets is a sport? I bet you didn’t. It is played by the kind of people that only wear LaCoste alligator pants and Ralph Lauren Polo) and my parents insisted that I attend the welcome cocktail party. The only reason I agreed to go was for the free Prosecco.

Having come off some of the roughest few months I’ve ever had in my career, I’m not exactly a delight at small talk these days. It’s hard to smile and say, “yes I enjoy my job of mindlessly entering data into Excel and doing VLookup and Index Margin formulas 8-10 hours a day” and mean it. Hence why on a scale of 1 to 10 in social situations these days, I’m a negative 2. Suffice it to say that Negative 2 me and the arrogant, young rackets players didn’t really hit it off.

At the cocktail party, my mother made sure to introduce me to Rackets Player Paul who was from geographically undesirable Boston. It turns out that Rackets Player Paul actually works in my industry which is unusual to find anywhere. Then Rackets Player Paul went on to tell me that he was walking down the street yesterday and my mom chased him down. She spotted him in his rackets gear and decided to make conversation about the tournament and mentioned that her single daughter from Los Angeles was also in town. Needless to say, I was mortified.

Mom got a stiff talking-to in the elevator from me (of the “stay out of my personal life” variety). She insists to this day that Rackets Player Paul exaggerated the “chasing him down” part. I’m not sure if I should be insulted or delighted that my parents have gotten so worried that they have taken to chasing down men in the streets of Chicago for me. But I guess it’s good that someone is still trying on my behalf.

dating, on Los Angeles

Rejection.

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Here’s a topic that I have not covered too much because my ego hurts too much admitting to it: rejection.

Two weeks ago, I attended a magnificent wedding of a fellow USC alum in Santa Monica and the minute I saw Mr. Best Man at the altar of the Catholic ceremony, I said – HIM. DIBS.

Now it’s not very often that I truly set my mind to something and don’t get it. 25 years ago on a cold January Chicago day, I told my mother that once I was a grown-up, I was moving to a place where I didn’t have to wear a coat (I mean, practicality at its best at age 4). 11 years ago, I walked on USC’s campus and said “Yes, I’m going to attend college here.” One year later, I started my freshman year at USC in the balmy climate of Los Angeles.

In late 2008, at the height of our failing economy, I set my mind to get a job in marketing. Granted, I got it and it sucked the soul out of me for 2.5 years. But I did it.

If the last 5+ years of dating in Southern California have taught me anything, they have taught me humility. Everyone in LA is here to get what they want.

But I digress…

Back to Mr. Best Man.

Mr. Best Man was a  Stanford grad. A former baseball player slash current personal trainer. I couldn’t have asked for a better Saturday Night Random Makeout. The competition consisted of 2 drunk bridesmaids who started at 10 AM and I had the upper sober hand.

The groom was on my side. Two groomsmen made absolutely sure we were introduced. Mr. Best Man and I danced. We took a shot. We sat and had a fun conversation over wedding cake. Then, the wedding party failed to make an after party happen and I found myself outside with a tired Best Man at midnight who just wanted to go to sleep. Alone.

And so I got into a taxi by myself. There are a million excuses for why he didn’t at least for my number but after 14+ years of dating, I know a blow-off when I see one.

The evening was a bit of a blow to my ego. Like I arrogantly said, I’m not very used to not getting what I want. I’m not used to putting myself out there and getting shot down. On top of it, it was the metaphorical nail to the coffin to what’s been a pretty terrible year of dating.

How much more of this can I really take? I’m pretty sure my standards are already dirt-level low (does he at  have a job at Radioshack? Cool! Does he have a college degree? No, but an associate’s degree will do. He lost all his hair? HA we’re only getting older. He’s bald at 30? — Let’s go!).

Go ahead, mock the anonymous blog writer. But I’m just getting real here, guys. How much more rejection and bullshit can we take?

Then there was the time my date ran away from me at the end of the night after walking me to my car. And by “that time”, I mean, last night.

Regardless, all that’s left to do is fill the hole in the ego and soldier on. Because at this point in life, you can’t just roll into a ball in the corner of your bedroom and stop trying. You save that for when you are a 50-year-old spinster with 7 cats.