The One With the "Soul Patch"

Another male-tale! This was written in the Spring of 2008. This is my personal favorite thus far!
*names have been changed.





I’m not really sure who ever the ridiculously intelligent idiot was that made the assumption that everything would make sense in the end.
How did he (or she) know for absolute certainty that EVERYTHING actually DOES work out in the end? And for that matter, what in the world signifies the “end” of something? Does this mean that I will awaken one day to realize that I have crossed the invisible finish “line”, to realize that whatever the issue was that had been haunting me  finally resolved itself and all  now all made sense.
If this were in fact true, then I would be left with the expectation, with the hope that one day I’ll wake up upon crossing this “finish line” and out of my computer would print an organized document relaying the meaning of all my previously unresolved frustration.  On that colored document would be graphs, charts and detailed paragraphs explaining every frustrating detail that I don’t understand about the 8th wonder of the world, men. 
I’m pretty sure that in only the short time span of the last month, I can probably calculate multiple times where I have taken a breath of triumph realizing that I indeed had figured out the labyrinth that is the mind of a man.  And now in this moment of retrospection, I realize that trying to conquer the mind of a man is like heading into a maze that you’ve never seen before, being void of the use of any of your five sense, while being set on fire.
Recently when I was relaying my male frustrations to a male in my life, he tried to justify the absolute immaturity of men to the fact that most men just don’t know what they want. My suggestion to a man that doesn’t know what he wants would be to keep his eyes, mouth and hands to himself until the moment of revelation that he realizes what he wants. A man seeking out a woman while he himself is void of direction, is like a starving woman heading to a Sam’s club and turning the corner to find free samples on every corner. 




     On this particular day, I was running late for work and not feeling at all like being a social being. Upon entering work, I approached the computer in an attempt to clock in, a minute late, only to feel the burning sensation of males eyes pulling apart my every feature. I looked up only to being staring through a thick glass window at the most attractive male I have every  had the pleasure of setting eyes upon. 
Let me paint a picture If I may; from the looks of it I would say this specimen was a little taller than 6 feet, hazel/green eyes, dark hair, medium complexion, a soul patch right below his lower lip and to frame this perfect face was the cutest pair of square glasses I’d ever seen. It also did not help that every little freckle on his face was just about placed at a perfectly calculated distance apart from one another. I honestly cannot tell you if I stared and if so whether my jaw was gapping or not.

    For pretty much anyone that’s ever spent more than half an hour with me, it’d be ridiculously easy to realize that the glasses on his face were the final touch in completing the most visually perfect person for me. 
Not to set my expectations too high, nor let myself expect too much, I decided that I would do everything in my power to be courteous but avoid mumbling over my words by avoiding contact as much as possible. Mission=survival. Survival=not embarrassing myself through the awkward attempts at conversation. 
I concentrated intensely on how many different routes to the hostess stand that I could take that we not take me past this young man. Because let’s be real, if I were to walk past him, more than likely, I’d trip.  After being at work for approximately 10 minutes or so, I decided to head to the ice bin in an attempt to look preoccupied.
Within moments of my tedious “work” at the ice bin this gentlemen proceed to walk from the booth he was lounging in, to the glass rack immediately beside me. He then began to fish his ice scoop in the very ice bin that I was “working” in. Our conversation proceeded something like this:


Him: well Helloooooo, and who are you?
Me: (in the most southern of ways) Hi! My name’s Mary Catherine. And you are?
Him: (attempting to be suave) Guy, my name’s Guy.
(extending my hand for a shake)
Me: It’s a pleasure to meet you. (turning back to my “work” in an attempt to look busy)
Him: Maaary Catheeerine. Is that what you go by? Or what about Mary? Or Catherine? Do you go by both like all the time or what?
Now at this point, I could see that he thought a good bit of himself and I, not at all being amused, decided to end this before he kept going with the names.
Me: It’s just Mary Catherine.  Both names. All the time.


    At this point, we were probably interrupted by something occurring in the kitchen, but nevertheless, our conversation came to a holt. For whatever reason, probably his lingering ego, I decided that from this moment forth I was not going to play the role of the drooling waitress that he’d probably encountered multiple time; but rather I was going to be a strong WOMAN 
By woman, I meant in control. And by strong, I meant that I wasn’t going to be flirtatious. 




For the rest of the night that ensued, I was intent on choosing to be the absolute opposite of my personality that was possible. All throughout the night, I was extremely negative, ridiculously pessimistic and overly short with everything Guy said to me. I figured that I’d show him who was boss, and he’d leave me alone before I clocked out at the evening’s end.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.


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