...and so does Mere. And Jennifer. And all of you, probably.

I'm beginning to think that maybe - just maybe - I'm too uptight.

Maybe it's Catholicism. Maybe it's the fact that I don't drink much anymore. Maybe it's the notable lack of recreational drugs in my life. Maybe it's the family. Maybe it's having been single for so long. Maybe it's Bird's influence (he's an attorney, and if there's one thing attorneys do well, it's BE PARANOID).

Actually, I like that one. Let's stick with that idea, shall we? IT'S ALL BIRD'S FAULT.

Yes.

Anyway, to put it in graphic and unsavory terms, perhaps I need to unclench.

The other night, in a fit of misguided optimism (and before I wrote the now-famous "Match.com" post), I signed up for Match.com for one month.

As predicted, most of the guys are EEEWWWWW. But there's this one that's...not. So much. Maybe. OK, FINE. HE'S REALLYREALLY CUTE. There. I'm shallow. Happy?

He's also...you know, not stupid. Maybe. And he likes historical stuff. Which is good. And he's all into creativity and shit, like me with this here blog.

Anyway, so he's e-mailed me (through the Match.com site) a few times and hasn't said or done anything to make me think he's a sex-crazed psycho killer. Which is something of a record in my world. Generally, it only takes guys 1-2 communiques before the little voices in their heads say, "Oh, go ahead and tell her all about your bestiality fetish! This one won't mind! I CAN TELL."

So perhaps, because of that fact, I got a little carried away. And when I went to reply to his message, I didn't click "reply" through the Match.com site, I clicked "reply" in my actual e-mail.

Which means that my e-mail signature was at the bottom of the e-mail.

My e-mail signature which lists the following information:
1. My real name
2. My place of business
3. THE FUCKING ADDRESS OF MY PLACE OF BUSINESS, OH MY GOD IN HEAVEN
4. My work phone number
5. MY G-------- CELL PHONE NUMBER

Brilliance, thy name is KEL.

Because I'm LIKE, SUPER AWESOME in a crisis, I then performed the following actions:
1. Ran around the coffee table multiple times screeching OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD
2. Flopped onto the sofa and covered my head with a blanket
3. Searched the house for alcohol (search returned: 0)
4. Called Jennifer, who didn't answer
5. Called Mere, who told me that I am insane

Heee. Don't you want me around during, say, a tsunami?

Fortunately, Mere talked me down off the ledge.

"KEL," she said severely, "This is not the best thing you could have possibly done, but it is certainly not the worst. You work with a veritable army of gigantic guys, all of whom are extremely protective of you and your family. I FEEL SORRY for the guy who goes up there and tries to start some shit. Second, you're not listed in the phone book, so he can't get your home address. Your apartment building is like Fort-Fucking-Knox, so even if he DID figure out where you live, how's he going to get in? And finally, it's your cell phone number. If he calls and you don't wish to talk to him, THEN DON'T ANSWER THE PHONE, GENIUS."

"Well, he asked me to COFFEE. Isn't that a little...untoward? I mean, I don't even KNOW HIM."

"Kel. It's COFFEE on a SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Look, the whole purpose of sites like Match.com is that you are supposed to meet someone with whom you will eventually GO ON DATES. Like, TOGETHER. What else are you going to do, prearrange a time to pass by one another in a specified aisle in the grocery store? It is not the least bit unreasonable that he should ask you to coffee. The amount of time invested is less than an hour. Coffee houses are PUBLIC PLACES FULL OF PEOPLE. You like him? You order a second cup. You don't? You suck down your coffee and leave. I mean, I'm guessing the residents of Shreveport would figure out that something was up if he slipped a roofie into your gingerbread latte then started dragging your lifeless body toward his car ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON. If you're going to do this, then you're going to have to take a chance. It's that simple."

See, when she puts it that way, it all sounds so...normal.

To further complicate matters, after I sent The E-mail of Doom, I Googled his name to see if something along the lines of "John Doe, Serial Killer" would come up. It didn't, but what did come up was a website with a bunch of pictures of him and his buddies getting drunk and hanging all over Hooters girls. This? Yeah, I want no part of this.

Then Mere pointed out that all the pictures are date-stamped 2000 and 2001.

"Kel, that was seven and eight YEARS ago. How old were you eight years ago?"

"Um, 23?" (WHAT. I'm really bad at math.)

"Think about what we were doing when we were 23, 24 years old. Would you want someone to judge you by your 23-year-old self? I think not."

"But..."

"No but. He seems like a perfectly nice, normal person. He's in the Air Force, for Pete's sake. Stop being a dumbass and meet him for coffee."

That Mere, she is wise.

For the record, Jennifer pretty much echoed Mere's sentiments exactly. She warned me to make sure to tell a couple people where I was going and what time, how long I planned to be there, to call them afterwards, etc. and everything should be fine.

So what do you guys think? Am I being paranoid and uptight? Is coffee unreasonable? How would you feel about doing something like this?



Your perhaps-a-little-too-stuffy-for-her-own-good
Kel