Singled Out: Asking the Girl Out

I have suspected I am possibly lacking in certain dating skills - specifically the "asking someone out" early stages of the dating game - but frankly I had absolutely no idea I was that severely impaired.  And by impaired I mean totally useless.  I'm not going to lie; I am completely devoid of proficiency in courtship affairs.

It"s bad enough that I never know when and if someone likes me but it is perhaps worse when my delusional brain, encouraged by my seemingly supportive entourage, makes me believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, someone is totally into me. It's bad because more often than not I get to find out - usually seconds before I'm about to dive into the shark tank - that actually, the one thing she really is, is not into me.

When I scan back on my dating record, it doesn't look so good!

Ever since I entered lesbianhood, I have dedicatedly pulled one pristine dating career assassination move after another.

The problem is that I am stuck in some kind of a Catch 22 situation. Either I am the last one to know I am on a date, or, conversely it is my so-called date who never gets the memo.

In both cases the outcome is invariably the same: I get absolutely no-fucking-where.

But because I am smart, I took a pro-active approach: out of the problem and into the solution. I called my super sexy therapist.

Quite frankly, as I was melodramatically weeping my heart out trying to convince her that the whole lesbian community was plotting this massive conspiracy against me, I was expecting her to offer a little respite of peace a la "you'll find another girl in a jiff."

Instead she rudely declined the cordial invitation to my pity-party and brutally belched out "The jig is up Mona!" What the fuck? How dare she not feel sorry for me?

"Can you please tumble back into reality," she continued slightly exasperated.

Excuse me! Surely it would behoove her to immediately stop pissing off the one who's got the checkbook, I think to myself, but evidently don't say out loud.

"What's the common denominator?" she asked in a patronizing way.

I wanted to say "Jesus, Mary, Madonna and Angelina Jolie" but I didn't think my smart-ass cockiness would have been very much welcome at this critical juncture. So I gave her the answer I knew she wanted to hear.

"Me," I declared with the same apologetic puppy-eyes as a child who's just been reprimanded - for emotional blackmail effect of course!

So ok, the world doesn't entirely revolve around me and I guess my lesbian fellows are not collectively conspiring to ensure I spend the rest of my life dateless and terminally single. The thing is that I am mortifyingly terrified at the thought of being rejected. And to prevent myself from the serious psychological damage of getting the boot, I have brilliantly made it a habit to apply myself at meticulously executing all the pre-asking out ground work to make sure there's no room for failure. Obviously the only thing I am executing is myself and, clearly the only ground work that is successfully accomplished is the digging of my own grave!

While I am busy mentally gathering undisputed evidence that the object of my affection is into me, my competitors - the fearless scavenging vultures -- are busy fiercely moving in on my target. But it's not my fault if I am paralyzed with numbing fear; nor am I to blame for the abnormally irrational behavior that takes over me as a ripple effect. It's a "survival of the fittest" instinct, which I absolutely have to blame on a psychological childhood trauma called "daddy."

Because I am fatally allergic to rejection, I refuse to approach a woman unless I know that my chances of being turned down are impossible or at least less than zero. And to measure the probably of success, or lack thereof, I practice the art of observation - a technique that can, and does,  take hours, days and sometimes weeks! I need to see that she is giving me all the right signals and that her body language is inviting.

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