Oh Man

So some of you may recall I mentioned hitting on an architect at the MFA and getting his number and e-mail? Well I have been avoiding writing about him because I don't think it's best to write so much about matters of the heart (well, matters of my own heart when it comes to a relationship whose point is eventual marriage and kids).

Unless of course said relationship goes nowhere in which case it becomes open for discussion. So. The architect. Or as I now call him, the barkitect, as he is a dog. Not that he was horrible, just that after some protracted e-mailing I tarted myself up, met him for coffee at the Boston Public Library, then hung out with him at a bookstore for awhile and listened to him talk...and talk...and talk...oh, and did I mention talk?...about himself. See that store on Newbury Street? His friends own it. Seen Austin Powers? His friend was a set designer for that movie. Ever been to Italy, London, Edinburgh? He's lived there.

I asked him if he was into hiking. He said "Once I hiked in the Dolomites wearing these shoes." I looked down to see some fancy-pants leather dress shoes. He was also wearing a black fedora purchased in Italy, black overcoat, pinstriped pants, and black zip-neck sweater.

Anyhoo. He had a whole long story about how he climbed for three or four hours in some fancy clothes to stay at the only open hotel in the area of Italy he happened to be visiting.

The weekend previous, he had been on what he called a "lad's weekend." By which he meant he went out and drank beers and looked at boobies with college friends of his. From Syracuse. Which Moo, who got her doctorate from Cornell, promptly harumphed. With which I tend to agree. If one is going to put on Ivy League airs, one should prolly have attended an Ivy League school.

But then maybe he got a masters at Harvard. Who knows? I won't, since even though I told him on the train home I would hang out with him again (mainly because he was, er, a stone fox but also because I thought perhaps some of our communication problems were more due to venue than compatibility)he did not deign to hang out with me. I have not heard boo from him since he Euro-kissed my right cheek and said "Ciao" as I exited the train a week ago Saturday.

Ah well. There are other fish in the sea, no?

Well, actually, no, not according to Oprah, who did a show on women in their thirties last week and opened it up remarking on how bleak the dating scene is for them, um, us, um, me.

I also read a really nauseating article in Details (I was at the gym, OK? and the only other choice was Woman's Day) about how it is now a really fabulous frickin' time to be a divorced middle-aged guy because you can totally date babes 15 years younger than you, like, lots of them, plus you've got gobs of disposable income and free time and BTW, advertisers looooooove you.

Sigggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

And

Thbbbbllllppppppppppppppppppppttttttt.