While text messaging with The Man has not been the best introduction back into dating that I can think of, it has given me an odd sort of confidence.  Now you could point out that since SF has been embellishing the texts, that he’s the one who should have the dating confidence and not me. However, I’ve chosen to ignore that and hope that at least some of me is what the guy is responding to in that mess.

I was feeling bolder this morning. There was a spring in my step—a bit of an oddity for 6:30am, but I wasn’t going to question it. I checked my email and happened upon a Living Social deal that sparked my curiosity: Speed Dating.

Surely, my new found gift of flirting honed through text would translate into the ability to speak to strange men in short intervals. My sparkling wit and carefully crafted style would be the hit of the speed dating. I’d probably get more “yes” marks on my dating cards than the 22 year old porn stars who will no doubt also be attending. I would be the thing of speed dating legend—and this time because of my unparalleled success and not because I accidentally set the restaurant on fire (which used to be more likely).  The “how to” speed dating books would have my picture on the cover, and my approach would be worth millions (and the resulting royalties would guarantee that I would not need to find another office job ever again).  The blog would explode, and frequently, I would be asked to provide insight on morning talk shows. And naturally, along the way, I would have found a true love with whom I could discuss Russian literature.

All of this floated through my mind. I was already flipping through my Flickr account of stylist approved outfits to wear to the first event and mentally waving to the crowds outside The Today Show.

My destiny was set. At last, I had a direction.

And then I looked at the description of the event:  For singles, ages 22-42.

I’m 43.

I’m 43, and my ability to be interesting to men has apparently expired.  I would actually have to lie in order to date in LA.

Ouch.