I don’t want to go to Connecticut.
I don’t like Connecticut.
Connecticut holds a special place of annoyance in my heart.
My dog is giving me the stink eye. She’s annoyed that I’m annoyed. She wants to eat my cheese.
My potential dates are annoying: a sixty year old, overly intellectual embracer of puns who looks like a rabbit, and a forty-something year old tech guy who hates his job but likes me because I’m confident and cocky. Might I add that the sixty year old intellectual who looks like a rabbit is already given to using pet names with me and the forty-something year old job hating tech guy and I have exchanged fewer than three emails.
It’s very annoying.
There’s also hip hop artist in Greenwich who wants to meet me. And a forty-four year old guy posing with his teddy-bear. And a twenty-five year old self-proclaimed “great catch,” single in the suburbs.
It’s rough out there.
In their Connecticut profiles, these guys smile from behind the wheels of their convertible BMWs. They wave from the decks of the company yachts. Their square jaws and GQ smiles pose at jaunty angles and instead of beer, they drink Perrier from the bottle.
And I sit at my computer and drink wine from a cracked mug and read what they’ve written about themselves. Annoyed.
And my dog stares at me because she wants to eat my cheese.
I know there are cool people in Connecticut. I know this because I know them. They are not annoying. They are, perhaps, the only reason why the Metro-North New Haven line is still running.
But, Connecticut, as a state, is annoying. To me, anyway.
But we have history.
I grew up on the mean streets of Westport, Connecticut. I moved there when I was two into a swampy house. I had my first a kiss when I was three with George T., who also came to my defense at pre-school by popping some kid in the face for picking on me.
After a promising beginning, my love life dried up.
At five, I moved to New Jersey. I agreed to go, bribed with a Disney Land vacation and a set of Wizard of Oz dolls. Living in New Jersey opened my eyes to a whole new world. One in which kindergarten teachers had it out for their students, and instead of encouraging them to succeed, they squashed their potential like bugs on a log.
At six, I ditched New Jersey and moved back to Connecticut, found my way to Greens Farms Elementary School. But, I never got my mojo back. The kids were tough and mean, hardened by years of tennis lessons and piano lessons and horse back riding lessons and ballet. I couldn’t compete.
I drew into my shell and graduated elementary, then middle, and finally high school. To cover my inadequacy, I learned to walk in high heels and fake eating disorders. I slopped coffee for Tom Cruise and waited in line at the grocery with Paul Newman. I worked at the bookstore cafe and dragged my cello to chamber rehearsals and orchestra rehearsals and pit orchestra rehearsals and band rehearsals and lessons and other lessons and then home, where I practiced in the sweltering heat of the New England summers.
But, I never, ever went on a date. I thought I never would.
There comes a moment in every anthropological dater’s life, when they realize they must overcome their personal, and elevated, levels of annoyance and date, regardless of geography.
And, if they’re lucky, and some guy buys their poorly constructed story about spending more time in New York than Norwalk, and why they might be able to hop off the train in Stamford (instead of driving) on their way back home from the city, on a Monday afternoon after the dog is walked and fed…
… then, it is the anthropological dater’s duty to pick up the phone and call back… and laugh… and charm…
… and make a date. In Greenwich, Connecticut. On a Monday afternoon. After the dog is walked and fed.
Oh, god. I’m so annoyed.
My dog’s given up on the cheese.
My mug is empty.
I’m glad it’s not Monday yet.