Obviously, someone has declared this the week of cyber incrimination. It’s true! Over the past seven days, we were all inundated with tales of "abducted" bloggers, backfiring Facebook traps and yes… even Weiners. In the face of all this stupidity, it’s difficult not to judge. “How could she have fallen for that?” we wonder. “How could he have been so dumb?” we ask. “How can I be such a hypocrite?!” I quake.
For those of you playing catch-up, allow me to rewind.
On the last episode of “Alex is a Train-Wreck,” we bid farewell to a semi-beloved character---Mr. Wonderful. Seemingly compatible he was, but ultimately on a much different track than your protagonist: I asked him to slow down and he didn’t. While he was anxious to speed the dating process (among other things), I was tapping the breaks. Unfortunately, the result was a slight emotional collision.
As I always do, I sat down to blog of my adventure; only this time, I was met with a very alarming comment:
“You do realize that your date has probably Googled you by now and is reading all your blog posts, right?”
Naturally, this has been a concern from the beginning. However I thought with the right amount of poise and tact, I could somehow express my sarcastic views without crushing anyone.
Hopeful?
Positive?
Inspiring?
Yeah… you’re right: Naive.
By now, Nice Alex was paranoid with worry. “What if this anonymous blogger is Mr. Wonderful himself---disapproving incognito?” Though it was unlikely, it was possible---and it paralyzed me with Single Girl Guilt. “Oh no!” thought Nice Alex, “now what?”
This blog brings me (and hopefully you) so much pleasure. While it seems to have opened a dialog for other cynical daters, it simultaneously allows me to selfishly connect my own dots. However, I am now faced with a very serious question: Can an earnest search for love ever be conducted in the public eye? Or, like Congressman Weiner, will my “over-exposure” eventually lead to an impromptu resignation?
Plagued by these questions, I went upstate for a family gathering. The festivities eventually led us to a rinky-dink bar for some live music and drinks. As the cute bartender mixed my usual vodka cranberry, he struck up a friendly conversation. We exchanged names and basic information.
“What did you study in school?” he asked.
“English and Mass Communications.”
“English and Mass Communications.” He repeated, trailing off.
“Yeah… I guess I wanted to be a writer or something,” I said smiling.
“How’s that working for you?”
“I’m in finance.” I chuckled, raising my glass.
Laughing with me, he asked “So do you write at all?”
I had a choice. I could allow this cute bartender to think I was just a girl who drank vodka cranberries, and lived in Westchester, and visited my family upstate on weekends, and worked in finance, and who maybe once wrote poetry…
or…
“Yes, actually---I write a blog.”
After explaining a little bit more, I rejoined my family for a couple tunes. I left prematurely to get a little sleep; and when the cute bartender didn’t ask for my number, I knew---the blog was too threatening. Though it pained me to consider it, perhaps The LABOR of LOVE would simply have to go.
…
You have one message
“Hey Sissy! Just wanna make sure you’re okay, give us a call when you get home. Also… after you left that bartender guy followed us into the parking lot and asked us to give you his number. He’s kinda cute, Ali… just sayin’! Alright talk to you soon!!”
And so… I write.
