Caved In

OK, so I caved in. I've signed up for Match.com. It was part of an effort to forget The Athlete. Who the hell's The Athlete? He's basically the first guy I've dated since my divorce almost 2 years ago. Well, maybe second. And no, he's not an athlete, but he does like sports, doesn't really play sports, but he likes watching sports. I don't know why I feel inspired to give him that nickname, maybeto throw off his identity a bit. No, he's not famous, but I should keep his anonymity so I can be as candid as possible on this blog. I guess that also means I should withhold my identity, too. And no, I'm not famous. Perhaps infamous.

But I digress. I've been sorta-kinda dating The Athlete since Valentine's Day. I don't know if you'd call that a date, but it was the first time we actually hung out. First time we really had a conversation in fact. We've sort of known each other for years. OK, maybe we've just seen each other around the office. I've known who he was and I guess he knew who I was, not much more beyond that.

And then...

Last year, we ran into each other when I was helping a colleague set up food for a team lunch. He stopped over and asked what it was, was familiar with the restaurant, and I had him help himself. I didn't realize how cute he was, I mean really cute. Like "how did I not notice you before?" kind of cute. And since then, I did whatever I could to run into him, which unfortunately was rare.

We ran into each other in the kitchen once. Actually, I busted him fishing around the candy bowl for the highly coveted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I teased him about it and it turned into an extended conversation about food and sweets and bacon and whatever small talk we could muster. But yes, bacon turned into the primary topic of our conversation. Perhaps not so special since bacon tends to be the primary topic of most of my conversations, if I can help it.

So Saturday night, February 13 rolls around and I was home packing away for an extended business trip when I got an email from The Athlete, that he was thinking of me because he had just gotten back from a conference in Southern California and had bacon every day. Hmmmm, interesting. Maybe the normal gal would find it insulting, but I reveled in it. Yes, I do love my swine. We ended up emailing each other for the next 3 hours, discussing not just bacon, but the Olympics and how I had seen on Twitter that something cool was going to happen at Apolo Ohno's speedskating event (unintended spoilers from the spoilers East Coasters) and so we watched somehow together, but over email, and eventually asked about other interests besides bacon, the Olympics and washing our hair.

Fuck it. I decided to stop beating around the bush and told him that the conversation had me craving bacon (ooh, if that's not an invitation for some naughty pun, I don't know what is) and invited him out to breakfast at one of my secret spots. How does one refuse such an invitation. I mean, I'm apparently known for my culinary cravings and am often asked for advice on places to eat. There are, however, a few choice locations that I do keep to myself because sometimes, I just don't want to run into people, especially on the occasional weekend morning when I just want to roll out of bed and get a good breakfast. And rarely, when the stars get aligned just right and I'm in the right mood, I will extend an invitation to a select friend. So I did.