I wrote a blog post every night for a year.
I worked my office job during the day, then picked up takeout on my way home and went online till the wee hours of the morning before going to bed. I was grieving and I was reeling and I was processing, and since I was by myself, I didn’t have anyone to help me flick the off switch.
First date after first date went nowhere. I started piling up the failures. I called the person I was out with my ex-wife’s name. Several times. To several different people. I kept waiting for a slow and dreamy date to happen, full of long conversations, deep knowing smiles, and telling waitress after waitress, “Sorry, we haven’t even looked at the menus yet.”
But it never came.
I felt like I was living a Groundhog Day full of handshakes, hugs, and forty-dollar bills for wine and fries.
Another year went by, and I was doing the same things: blogging every night, getting introduced to people, meeting friends of friends, and having drinks with people I met online. One night my friend Rita, who lived down the hall, came over to ask if I wanted to check out an art exhibit across the street. She came over a lot to see if I wanted to grab a drink or snack. But this time she brought a friend.
“Hi, I’m Leslie,” a stunning brunette with a giant smile and sunbeaming confidence said with an outstretched hand. “Oh, hey, hi, I’m, uh, Neil,” I managed.
We walked across the street and roamed through a great photography exhibit before grabbing a glass of wine and a plate of fries at a French bistro.
“So Neil’s a blogger,” Rita said. “Maybe you’ve heard of his blog? He’s been at it awhile. It’s one of the biggest in the country now. They’re turning it into a book called The Book of Awesome.”
“What’s a blog?” Leslie asked.
And I was hooked.
Later that night, when Rita emailed both of us a link to the photographer whose exhibit we’d seen, I reached back out to Leslie asking her out on a date. “How about Tuesday at 10 p.m.?” I emailed. “Or Wednesday night at 9 p.m.?”
“Sorry,” she replied. “I go to bed at 8 p.m. I’m a kindergarten teacher.”
“Well, how about Sunday breakfast then?” I asked.
“Sounds great,” she replied.
And it was set.