Sex & The Single Vicar

Tales of Ecclesiastical Dating

Flutter. Flutter. Flutter.

Flew the beats of my bipolar heart.

First date with Alfredo, the Uber driver, got off to a great start.

Over coffee and pastry,

we bantered about books,

picked apart politics.

But language handicapped,

“1984”

just does not compute.

Spanglish flirting,

cross cultural exchanges,

sort of funny and familiar,

awkward and strange.

Family photo flipping,

he follows

with Facebook jokes.

So charming to see him 

try to translate and explain.

But humor 

does not yield

to translation.

Yet 

all was fun and flirty enough,

so I ask him out 

for a second time,

on a lark,

to lunch and the Library of Congress.

Of course.

Alas, on date #2,

no spark,

no spark at all.

And spark,

you can’t manufacture.

And a scoche of sketchiness. 

Too soon in my space.

Too interested in my wallet.

The second date on First Street

falls flat.

You take the yellow line.”

“I will take the blue.”

From Capitol South to King Street,

It becomes clear

there is no future  beyond date #2.

I confer with life coach,

daughter Colleen,

who quickly concurs.

She crafts for me 

an itty bitty break up text

which I copy and paste.

Verbatim.

Mom,  this is why you can’t get excited too quickly.”

“Remember you’ve spent less than three hours with this guy!”

Ah, the brain science of attraction is alien to me.

(Maybe I should read Madeleine Fugere’s book: The Social Psychology…!)

I really don’t know what the hell I am doing.

But

maybe I do.

In the space of three weeks,

I met him,

I asked him out.

And I decided,

he was not for me.

Veni. 

Vidi.

Vici.

I shifted 

from passenger to driver.

For 21 days,

Joani was behind the wheel,

the dating wheel, that is.

So, 

goodbye Uber driver.

Thank you for the ride,

brief though it was.

At least,

I got this blog post out of it,

and learned a little something:

Remember

not to get

too

Over/Uber excited

too

soon.

Singularly yours:

Rev: Joani

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