Every time I take me on a date I manage to get my pants off… metaphorically.
Just got back to my side of town after a fifty mile ride up the coast with Piper and am quite literally vibrating. While sitting atop a roaring demon for three hours has similar residual effects as playing a few too many games of Wii Bowling, it’s not the only reason.
The last 24 hours have produced 3 stories and they all have a common theme.
Last night I went out with Aaron S. in the beast machine from Clubbin With Compliments. We went for drinks in Beverly Hills with all the hoity–toity people and gave the equivalent of zero fucks… which is impressive considering the environment and circumstances.
We approached the bar next to two ravishing women. In the process of borrowing their menu, Rebecca from Texas threw a sarcastic fit. Being an area of personal expertise, I countered with a slightly more sarcastic reaction and it sparked a conversation.
We chatted for a bit before they gathered themselves to leave for another bar and invited us to join. We smiled and told them we might see them later, but I think I can speak for both Aaron and myself that neither of us were interested. We did end up going to that bar and—as expected—found them in the most highly trafficked area surrounded by men.
They were out to get attention from other people, we were out to give it to ourselves.
Following on that theme, and in obvious need of a break, I decided to take David’s advice and “get some rest this weekend” (apparently he still reads my emails). I slept in, took my time getting ready for the day, and left the house in my favorite shirt. I decided to take myself on a date and headed to a new restaurant called Butcher’s Daughter for brunch.
After brunch, I sat for a bit to write in my Brainfeed Journal and collect my thoughts about the coming weeks. It was my aim to take the day off from the more rigorous activities and create a plan for the next few weeks that would prevent the burnout I was experiencing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two cute girls sit next to me and continued to write. They were there for about twenty minutes before a casual comment about someone who had approached to ask what they were eating prompted a rather cheeky conversation.
They were sisters—born and raised in Downtown Los Angeles—living right up the street. In sharing a few stories from my first year in the city, they told me that they wished they had more interesting friends and it prompted an exchanging of numbers. Karyn, the older sister, was particularly adorable and might be worthy of a date sometime in the future.
On more than one occasion, the conversation got a bit stale and prompted me to retreat to my notebook. I didn’t want to come on too strong or appear that I had just come to the restaurant to pick up women so I reeled it in a bit. Keep this in mind, we’ll come back to it.
I dropped my stuff at the house and went for a ride. While I could spend pages crafting metaphors to describe what it’s like to twist the throttle of a Ducati… it was the end of my ride that was the most eventful. A few miles from my exit on the Pacific Coast Highway, I pulled up to a stoplight and saw what appeared to be a cute biker chick riding alone.
She was riding a matte black Triumph Bonneville with a soft gold helmet, saddlebags, and a Canadian license plate. While the auburn hair flowing from her helmet was unusually perfect, I couldn’t see her face and didn’t think too much of it. As we rode, we began to jockey for the best path through traffic and ended up splitting lanes side-by-side for a mile.
I was so absorbed that I missed my exit and decided to continue the adventure. I pulled up along side her at the next exit ramp and flipped my visor to say, “I swear I’m not following you” which… was a bold faced lie… because that’s exactly what I was doing.
She complimented Piper for being so sexy and we continued in the same direction. Mind you that while we’re having a few quick words at each stoplight, I’m driving in the opposite direction of my house. Why? I could give a thousand reasons, but there’s only one that matters… she had a button nose. That and she was the epitome of adorable.
She pulled off to look for directions and I passed on the opportunity to ask for her number.
These three stories share a common thread in that there was (and likely will not be) any outcome to these events. I don’t need the phone numbers of these women to feel as though the conversation was a success and that’s a big step forward for me. It’s perfectly acceptable for the experience of the conversation to be the most desirable outcome.
I passed on getting a phone number last night because they clearly didn’t have a strong inner game (i.e. their sense of validation was entirely external). I didn’t make a move on the girls from lunch because it was a friendly conversation and didn’t need an expectation to be attached. I didn’t stop for the biker chick’s number because she lived in Vancouver.
I didn’t pitch because the offer wasn’t a fit.
Ages ago I was taught “if you don’t ask the question, the answer is always no.” This is true, but it doesn’t illustrate a greater risk… the loss of energy. Given the fact that this whole day was designed to be an investment into me, conservation of energy was paramount.
You don’t need to have an immediate outcome to call it a win.
Sometimes the greatest wins are secured when you walk out on a high note.
This was a high note. Don’t be surprised if Piper and I become Facebook official soon.
As they advise in the event of a loss in cabin pressure, you should save yourself before you try to save someone else. If you’re dead, it’s apparently challenging to be of service.
When was the last time you managed to walk away?