I'm about to ramble on

Bear with me, anyone who cares to read this. But this is nigh-earth-shattering news that I am unable to contain any further, and stuff.

I have a date. More importantly, I have been _asked out_ on a date. I can count on one of my hands, minus about 4 fingers, how many times that has happened to me in my life. And I'm not talking about some email wannafuck invite from some guy who's seen a personal ad of mine somewhere on the internet. I'm talking someone who called me and asked me out.

Mindblowing. But, as with so many other things in life, it is far more complex than that. Going back in time about a year...

... to a new hire at the hotel I work at. Nice guy, just my type (and I have many types, but this is the primary one), handsome, as tall as me if not slightly taller, clean cut, ample without being overly large, cuddly, and apparently a member of my team.

That's important, because there aren't that many of my People here in Wyoming. At least, not noticeably so.

So, over the course of a few weeks, there was the typical usage of third-parties to determine whether or not this guy has any interest in me. Third-parties report back that yes, indeed, there is some interest. So, I act on it, ask him out to breakfast one morning, and unintentionally, lay it on thicker than intended.

And get shot down.

A few days later, Third Party tells me that object of desire, who I find out is only 19 (Looking FAR older than that) feels I am too old for him.

It's an explosion of age spots, kidney failure and wrinkles all at once on my 36 year-old psyche.

Ouch.


Things are cooled off, obviously. I steer any thoughts back to a standard professional business working relationship, and things are fine. Object quits hotel for a month, comes back, gets old job again. Seems to be flirting with me. As many who know me know, I am totally oblivious to such acts of subtlety, requiring that such things as "someone taking an interest in me" and "hey, I'm attracted to you" must be delivered to me with sledge-hammer force blows before I finally comprehend what the hell is going on.

I'm playing it cool this time around, not sure if I can survive yet another brush with instant-aging. Object calls me last week, asks if I will cover a shift for him. Not an easy thing for me to do, since it's a thursday overnight shift, which means Day Job 8-5 Thursday, sleep if I can, Hotel Thursday night 10-6am Friday, Day Job Friday, sleep if I can, hotel Friday night. But I accept, since he has a valiant reason for wishing to have the night off. Which is when he says that I owe him anyway, since I took the previous weekend off and he worked those nights, and that finally, I also owe him a night out.

I reply with the verbal equivalent of blinking in surprise, which is actually surprisingly difficult to do when talking on the phone, yet I managed.

After I inquire about the entire age-difference thing, he covers by explaining that Third Party got it wrong, that it was not the age difference, but that he was involved with someone else at the time that led him to turn me down a year ago.

So, I agreed to the date. There is no set time, place, or day yet set for said date, but what has been going over and over in my mind tonight while working is that I feel there is almost a group energy behind this date, as if all the staff at the hotel have been waiting for and encouraging this to happen, and are eagerly anticipating what will happen next. Not so much in a creepy voyeuristic way, but almost more of Jane Austin sort of way.

Object is scheduled to work the shift after mine, so I'm hoping to set a time (provisionally for later in he day) to bring about The Date, and perhaps even experience an interlude of Intercourse. Yes, that is how we speak on Planet Outsider; it is sufficiently adequate as far as speech mannerisms go. I'm thinking of taking him on a picnic of some sort. No promises that I'll update the journal after the date happens, but I'll attempt to make the necessary effort to do so.

I'm about to ramble on

Bear with me, anyone who cares to read this. But this is nigh-earth-shattering news that I am unable to contain any further, and stuff.

I have a date. More importantly, I have been _asked out_ on a date. I can count on one of my hands, minus about 4 fingers, how many times that has happened to me in my life. And I'm not talking about some email wannafuck invite from some guy who's seen a personal ad of mine somewhere on the internet. I'm talking someone who called me and asked me out.

Mindblowing. But, as with so many other things in life, it is far more complex than that. Going back in time about a year...

... to a new hire at the hotel I work at. Nice guy, just my type (and I have many types, but this is the primary one), handsome, as tall as me if not slightly taller, clean cut, ample without being overly large, cuddly, and apparently a member of my team.

That's important, because there aren't that many of my People here in Wyoming. At least, not noticeably so.

So, over the course of a few weeks, there was the typical usage of third-parties to determine whether or not this guy has any interest in me. Third-parties report back that yes, indeed, there is some interest. So, I act on it, ask him out to breakfast one morning, and unintentionally, lay it on thicker than intended.

And get shot down.

A few days later, Third Party tells me that object of desire, who I find out is only 19 (Looking FAR older than that) feels I am too old for him.

It's an explosion of age spots, kidney failure and wrinkles all at once on my 36 year-old psyche.

Ouch.


Things are cooled off, obviously. I steer any thoughts back to a standard professional business working relationship, and things are fine. Object quits hotel for a month, comes back, gets old job again. Seems to be flirting with me. As many who know me know, I am totally oblivious to such acts of subtlety, requiring that such things as "someone taking an interest in me" and "hey, I'm attracted to you" must be delivered to me with sledge-hammer force blows before I finally comprehend what the hell is going on.

I'm playing it cool this time around, not sure if I can survive yet another brush with instant-aging. Object calls me last week, asks if I will cover a shift for him. Not an easy thing for me to do, since it's a thursday overnight shift, which means Day Job 8-5 Thursday, sleep if I can, Hotel Thursday night 10-6am Friday, Day Job Friday, sleep if I can, hotel Friday night. But I accept, since he has a valiant reason for wishing to have the night off. Which is when he says that I owe him anyway, since I took the previous weekend off and he worked those nights, and that finally, I also owe him a night out.

I reply with the verbal equivalent of blinking in surprise, which is actually surprisingly difficult to do when talking on the phone, yet I managed.

After I inquire about the entire age-difference thing, he covers by explaining that Third Party got it wrong, that it was not the age difference, but that he was involved with someone else at the time that led him to turn me down a year ago.

So, I agreed to the date. There is no set time, place, or day yet set for said date, but what has been going over and over in my mind tonight while working is that I feel there is almost a group energy behind this date, as if all the staff at the hotel have been waiting for and encouraging this to happen, and are eagerly anticipating what will happen next. Not so much in a creepy voyeuristic way, but almost more of Jane Austin sort of way.

Object is scheduled to work the shift after mine, so I'm hoping to set a time (provisionally for later in he day) to bring about The Date, and perhaps even experience an interlude of Intercourse. Yes, that is how we speak on Planet Outsider; it is sufficiently adequate as far as speech mannerisms go. I'm thinking of taking him on a picnic of some sort. No promises that I'll update the journal after the date happens, but I'll attempt to make the necessary effort to do so.