Summer Solstice 2011.
Just like that, a year goes by.
2010: It goes without saying I abandoned ship. Failed to deliver. Failed to launch. Not a single date. Not one. None. Zero. I did manage the Match.com profile, finally, I think it was early July. My heart wasn't in it. Maybe I was dehydrated? Iron-deficient? Over-worked? Clinically depressed? Existentially adrift in the ever-accelerating gadget-driven techno-social-info-verse that is my professional and, increasingly, personal life? Just plain lazy?
But talk about it I did--the challenge; the concept; the fact that I had considered doing it but hadn't; that it was absurd and funny and had great potential for both manuscript and screenplay, for entertaining friends, family and readers alike all summer long; that I'd regret NOT doing it. That under no circumstance should my sister choose Winona Ryder to play her in the feature film. I must do it, after all--next summer.
Which is this summer.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Back-pedal
So it's finally, officially, summer. Ahhhhhh.
And every day now, the amount of daylight will slowly diminish until the darkest deadness of winter. It's all downhill, as soon as it starts--spoken like the SAD poster girl that I am. In that spirit, or lack of, the folly of this undertaking overtakes me. The brother-in-law is right. 100 dates in 93 days is ridiculous. It's absurd. It's a full-time job. I already have one of those. I don't like it a whole lot.
But that doesn't mean I won't try. I just want to overdeliver, which presupposes underpromising, underestimating, low-balling it. How about twelve dates? That's reasonable. Approximately one a week. But even twelve requires that I get my butt on one of those online dating sites. Write a light but pithy profile. Find some pictures of myself that current and cute, but not showing too much cleavage, according to the sister's advice. And I'm already 24 hours into the summer. Doh.
And every day now, the amount of daylight will slowly diminish until the darkest deadness of winter. It's all downhill, as soon as it starts--spoken like the SAD poster girl that I am. In that spirit, or lack of, the folly of this undertaking overtakes me. The brother-in-law is right. 100 dates in 93 days is ridiculous. It's absurd. It's a full-time job. I already have one of those. I don't like it a whole lot.
But that doesn't mean I won't try. I just want to overdeliver, which presupposes underpromising, underestimating, low-balling it. How about twelve dates? That's reasonable. Approximately one a week. But even twelve requires that I get my butt on one of those online dating sites. Write a light but pithy profile. Find some pictures of myself that current and cute, but not showing too much cleavage, according to the sister's advice. And I'm already 24 hours into the summer. Doh.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Challenge
June 21, 2010. Summer Solstice. The day upon which the earth's axis tilts as close to the sun as it's going to get. The last day before the first full day summer. The last day before I willingly fall victim to my sister's vicarious, ridiculous scheme to bust me out of my rudderless work-a-day rut; to rocket me skyward on a dazzling trajectory toward book contract, movie deal, and more; to settle me down with a boyfriend who isn't a psychiatric nurse, hairdresser, counter-espionage agent or cocaine-addled recovering Catholic.
"There aren't even 100 days in the summer" was my response when she first presented the idea before Memorial Day (as well as my brother-in-law's, reading this over my shoulder moments ago). "Coffee, lunch, drinks after work: 3 dates in one day. Easy. It's a numbers game," says she.
"You're setting yourself up for failure -- July 4, you'll have had five dates, you'll look like a loser who can't get dates," says the brother-in-law. "Where are you going to find these dates anyway?" Sister, who hasn't been on a date since 1991: "Duh. Have you never heard of Match.com? Like shooting fish in a barrel. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We'll even put your Match listing in the book. You just need to promise me you'll cut me in on the royalties."
So at the last possible opportunity, the last moment before it's technically summer, I take her up on the throw-down. "Ok, you get half of everything." 100 dates in 93 days. Just for something to do. Starting tomorrow.
"There aren't even 100 days in the summer" was my response when she first presented the idea before Memorial Day (as well as my brother-in-law's, reading this over my shoulder moments ago). "Coffee, lunch, drinks after work: 3 dates in one day. Easy. It's a numbers game," says she.
"You're setting yourself up for failure -- July 4, you'll have had five dates, you'll look like a loser who can't get dates," says the brother-in-law. "Where are you going to find these dates anyway?" Sister, who hasn't been on a date since 1991: "Duh. Have you never heard of Match.com? Like shooting fish in a barrel. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We'll even put your Match listing in the book. You just need to promise me you'll cut me in on the royalties."
So at the last possible opportunity, the last moment before it's technically summer, I take her up on the throw-down. "Ok, you get half of everything." 100 dates in 93 days. Just for something to do. Starting tomorrow.
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