Pass the hair gel

Just when I was ready to throw open the doors of my pity party and lament my lack of male companionship, Mother Nature reminds me to be careful what I wish for.

"Why did you cross your legs that way when I'm over here?"

And the psychoanalysis had begun.

"You know, when you shook my hand, you put your hand on top and pressed down to show that you're in control."

When he picked me up in his Porsche 911 earlier that Sunday evening, we shook hands in the car. He offered his hand to me with the palm facing up in a "slip me some skin" move, so the handshake was pretty awkward with very little room for maneuvering.

Since I had met Porsche Guy at a Cubs game, I figured I was safe in at least one topic of conversation. But no, he can't stand to watch baseball on TV. He only goes to the game to enjoy the "drama" of it in person. He's really not much of a sports fan even though he played pro beach volleyball for a few years in Mexico.

No, he's not really that tall.

He has a daughter in central Illinois who's 12 years old. He never married the mother, claiming that at 25 years old, he would've been a horrible dad. Later in the evening, he showed me his drivers license. He was born in 1974.

You do the math.

His mother recently told him that if he had spent as much time working on a relationship as he had on his career, he'd be happier. Apparently, he's taken that to heart because he clearly (and several times) stated that he wants to "stop wasting time."

Porsche Guy feels that you should be able to find out pretty quickly if you like someone or not and quite frankly, he's really good on paper (his words, not mine...obviously). He attended Harvard, NYU and has lived in New York, Miami, Chicago and Los Angeles.

So why didn't I fawn over him, like most other women? (I didn't make this up, really! He actually did ask me that.)

When I picked my jaw up off the floor, I explained that I don't fawn over anyone. Did I mention what he looks like? If not, picture a medium-built guy with dark, curly gelled hair, at least two-days' growth of beard but not enough to cover what in my teenage years would've been called "pizza face."

Yes, folks, why wasn't I fawning over such a fine specimen?

My head was throbbing with the refrain of "why am I here?"

Morbid curiosity is my best guess.

The conversation never got any better. Actually, it got worse when I mentioned that although the club we were drinking in was nice, it had gotten difficult to converse since the music was turned up.

"How many drinks does it take for you to relax?"

You know the scene in countless movies where a girl throws a drink in some guy's face and storms out?

SOOOOOOOOOOO CLOSE!

He agreed to take me home, but not before suggesting we go to his place (across the street from my place, God help me!) and makeout for a while.

Surprisingly, I didn't laugh in his face, but neither did I have difficulty in saying that since our conversation didn't exactly give me a warm and fuzzy feeling, I really didn't think I'd be interested in that.

Who are these psychos and why do I keep meeting them?!