The Day(s) After - Part 1

Yeah so it happened. I turned 30 just a mere three days ago. I didn't die. Hell I didn't even cry, well that's a bit of a lie but I didn't cry about being 30, well maybe I did but it is a long story of little relevance. In a nutshell, The Ex came over. We were sitting on the couch watching tv and there was a scene that reflected our situation:

He decided to put his penis into another woman's vagina.
*POOF*
The end of our marriage.

Anyway, when it happened on tv I cried, but really I don't think it had anything to do with turing 30.

Overall, the day itself was uneventful. Turning 30 was pretty much uneventful on the whole. However, the day after. Well WTF do I say about the day after - it was CRAZY! OK, so let also say that crazy is all relative. But for me it was crazy.

I went on a date with a guy I met from an online dating site - in the naughty section! Do you love it or do you think I'm absolutely fucking crazy? Mostly, I think the later. But am I sorry I did it? Not at all. In fact, I'm sitting here with a big smile on my face.

Here comes the self-indulgent detail-filled musings from a girl the day after her first date in seven years. That's right, you reading it correctly. The last time I was out on an actual date, I was 23 years old.

So, onto the evening. I manage to run out of the office at 5:15 p.m. even though the two women who work for me are still typing away in their offices. *Ugh* Nonetheless, I have to go, I've at least been smart enough to book a make-up appointment.

I am telling you, if you need to feel good about yourself in a serious way, this is the best $40 you could ever spend. When I get my make-up done by a professional, I can't help but feel hot. I mean these women are trained to make you look better than you actually do and god bless them, somehow they manage to do it!!!

So, I get to my make-up appointment and perch myself up on the director style chair in the middle of a large department store. PLEASE NOTE: I've removed all of my make-up, pulled back my hair in a bad ponytail, am sitting directly under the worst light possible and it just happens to be in the middle of a busy department store isle at 5:45 p.m. on a Friday night. Sometimes I do really stupid things because of vanity.

The 20 year old waif who is doing my make-up is sweet and beautiful. I'm there almost an hour and never sense even a trace of attitude. She asks me what's the occasion and I lie and tell her it is my birthday. Frankly, there is no fucking way I'm going to tell anyone, mind you this lovely little waif, that I'm meeting Mr. Producer from the naughty section of an online dating site. Nope, not gonna happen.

We make small talk throughout the duration of her applying and mixing and blotting an impossible number of pigmented products onto my face. When she is finally happy with what she's done with me she hands me a large mirror. Looking in the mirror, I see myself, only better.

This beautiful little waif has worked her magic and given me a little kick of confidence to go on my first day in SEVEN years! Thank fucking god for something that could give me confidence. Real or not, I love it.

I thank her a few times, buy a mascara and pay for my session. As I wait for her to bag my tiny black box I glace at myself in the mirror and smile. Like I said, the best $40 you could spend on yourself.

The only thing that brings me back to earth is the reality of time. It is 6:40 p.m. I am supposed to meet Mr. Producer at 7:30 p.m. I still have to go home, walk and feed the dog, change my clothes, brush my teeth, and get to the opposite end of the city. Well, that's not going is happen. I am going to be late.

Are you fucking kidding me?!?! I am going to be late for my first date in seven years? How the fuck does that happen - oh yeah, make-up, right.

I hoof it out of the mall, hop in a cab the 1.5 KMs to my place. I'm sure the driver hates fairs like mine - not even $10 with a tip. I try to be extra nice to make up for the shitting fair but I always feel bad. I think it is part of my catholic guilt, but I'll save all of that for another time and post.

Immediately upon getting into my place I log onto my MSN to see if Mr. Producer is online. Sure enough I see his tiny little photo icon that show's he's online. I send him off as few words possible trying to convey a sense of my urgency.

Hi. I just got home. Have to take the dog out. Change my clothes. Get on the street car. I'm going to be late. SORRY! *insert terrible flashing yellow smiley face icon*

He sends me back an LOL and says that he expected as much and not to worry. We agree that we'll move our meeting time to 8 p.m. and I get my ass in gear!

First I feed and water the dog. I love her. She's a great dog. But sometimes, she's a big pain in the ass. When you are late, she's enjoys being a royal pain in the ass. It is like she knows I'm late and she wants to remind me that she's the boss.

Eventually I get inside and can start to get changed. I know what jeans I'm going to wear as I only have one pair that I actually like. The bottom is totally taken care of but I have to try on three black tops before I finally settle on the first one I put on. I quickly freshen up. Brush my teeth. Give myself a good spray of my yummiest perfume. Grab my purse and my iPod and run out the door.

I've timed my departure perfectly because the streetcar car pulls up just as I was approach the stop. As I climb on the streetcar the pod is playing a little Amy Winehouse in my ears and I'm smiling.

I'm single for the first time in seven years. I'm a mere streetcar ride away from my first date in seven years. I'm totally fucked up. But I'm smiling because at this moment, I have that little bit nervous nausea that happens in the last few moments leading up to the meeting. The official commencement of the first date.

Wow. I forgot how great this can feel. I'm sure if I'm still doing a lot of this a few years from now, I may not be loving it, but for now, I'm loving it. Well, actually, I'm loving it right up until the moment I have to pull the line for my stop. As I reach up and my sweaty palm makes contact with the line I want to vomit.

WTF am I doing?!?!! Have I completely lost my mind?!?!? Apparently so.