An Ordinary Day
Staring at my computer screen, I know I should be working, but my mind just won’t focus. The minutes drag by, each one feeling longer than the last, especially during that final hour on a Friday afternoon. It’s as though I’m watching a pot of water that refuses to boil, the anticipation mounting but nothing ever happening. In an attempt to break through the monotony, I pick up my mug and weave my way through the maze of cubicles, heading toward the main hall, then onward to the cafeteria for ice and water. The office feels unusually quiet, even by Friday standards. If I had to guess, it's probably because it’s Halloween and most of my coworkers with children have already left for the day. Since I’m single and don’t have kids, I don’t have the same excuse to head out early.
My focus is scattered, largely because I know I need to leave on time. If I start any meaningful work now, there’s a real possibility I’ll lose track of time and end up running late. I have a coffee date set for 4:30 with someone I met on Bumble, so my plan is to leave by 4 PM, which should get me there a little early. As the minutes tick by, though, I’m tempted to cancel the date entirely. I’ve put myself out there several times, but my enthusiasm is waning. Still, I can’t bring myself to cancel at the last minute—it just wouldn’t be fair. Earlier this year, I was stood up twice, and that stung, so I’d rather not tempt fate. Yet, every time I try dating again, I find myself wondering: isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result?
So, you may ask, why am I putting myself through this again? I blame the cooling weather and the end of the year, and with the holiday season quickly approaching, it's hard not to feel the pressure of loneliness more acutely. In a moment of weakness, I decided to get back on Bumble and give the app another chance, even though I probably should have known better. The inevitability of the season and the hope for change nudged me forward.
When 4 PM finally arrives, I know it's time to suck it up and drive to Starbucks for my coffee date. I had already mapped out the best route to get there, confirming not just the drive time but also the entrance to the parking lot. Even though I have lived in Peoria my entire life, I always double-check the directions and travel time. I think it's a reflection of my own social anxiety and paranoia—re-confirming all this information, as if it will somehow take a little bit of stress off my shoulders and make the upcoming interaction easier to handle.
I arrive at Starbucks a few minutes ahead of schedule and scan the room, noticing that he hasn’t arrived yet. Deciding not to wait, I go ahead and order my drink—opting to pay for myself since I’m not particularly excited about this date and don’t want him to feel obligated. Not being a coffee drinker, I ask for a Caramel Apple Spice, only to learn that it’s no longer available. I take a deep breath and ask about the available tea flavors. When I hear “mint,” I quickly choose that option. With my tea in hand, I find a table in the corner, positioning myself to have a clear view of the entrance. As I take a sip, I burn my tongue—ouch. I’m grateful he wasn’t there to witness my awkwardness as I fidget with the square tag attached to my tea bag.
While waiting, a sense of tightness grows in my chest and the feeling of dread intensifies. I’m unsure whether this is due to my lack of enthusiasm for the date or my own emotional disconnect. It’s clear to me that I need to move on, especially knowing that the person I truly want isn’t interested in me. Perhaps dating isn’t right for me at this moment, but I recognize that it’s time to let go of any lingering romantic hopes and move forward.
The door opens and I steel myself, but it’s not him. I check my watch; he’s running late. Although he texted to say he was on his way, I’ve learned that doesn’t always guarantee anything. I have a habit of being five to ten minutes late, so being early today feels like a small victory. Finally, the door opens again and he walks in—let the evening begin.
As an avid reader, this is the point in a story where I start thinking: could this be the beginning of a romance novel or perhaps a murder mystery, given that it is Halloween? Choosing to be optimistic, I lean toward the possibility of romance. Thinking of the wide variety or romance troupes, I think I would narrow it down to one of the two following options:
Option 1: Despite my reservations, I notice him stride in, and there’s an undeniable spark of electricity—sudden excitement fills the air. It feels as though all the heartbreak and effort I’ve put forth might finally be rewarded. We schedule another date, and as our relationship develops, we encounter miscommunications that need resolving. Each misunderstanding tests our patience but also brings us closer, hinting that perhaps this could be the start of something meaningful.
Option 2: Alternatively, the date could go horribly wrong. Despite some initial attraction, miscommunication arises—much like when Mr. Darcy slights Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. The evening leaves me certain I’ll never see him again. However, circumstances intervene when a project or event requires us to work together, forcing proximity that neither of us can avoid. Over time, as we resolve our differences, initial dislike gradually transforms into genuine affection. Oh, Jane Austen, you have been giving women unrealistic expectations of men since 1811.
In both cases the sextual tension builds leading to amazing sex (insert all the cliches) as the protagonist has multiple orgasms. As my brain wonders, I am now curious how Jane Austen would have written sex scenes in today’s modern era. I am now thinking maybe I should read the Bridgerton novels to insert a little bit of spice into my life.
You should know that this date was not that. It was unforgettable, though not in the way I had hoped. Honestly, there’s little worth recounting—the conversation fell flat, the chemistry was nonexistent, and the entire encounter left me feeling more drained than before. I politely made my excuses, thanked him for meeting me, and quickly retreated to the sanctuary of my house. By 6 PM, I was already home, relieved that the ordeal was over. At this point, I am completely over the dating apps and the endless cycle of hope and disappointment they seem to bring.
Yes, I am fully aware that my life might seem sad and even a little pathetic at times. It’s Halloween night, and I find myself alone at home, with no weekend plans in sight. The thought crosses my mind—if something were to happen to me, it’s likely no one would notice until Monday, when I failed to show up for work. The only exception would be my cat, who, despite not having an official name and being referred to simply as “cat,” would probably be irritated by my absence.
Trying to shake off the gloom, I open a bottle of wine and pour myself a generous glass. Deciding to relax, I settle in front of the TV. Since it’s Halloween, I choose to watch Hocus Pocus, a movie that never fails to make me laugh. Having watched it countless times, I appreciate the comfort of knowing exactly what to expect—no surprises, just familiar silliness. The scene where they sing “I Put a Spell on You” always cracks me up; honestly, does that song ever get old?
I generally prefer to avoid scary movies because they tend to make me anxious. While some people enjoy the adrenaline rush that comes from suspense or fear, I find much more comfort in stories where I can anticipate the outcome or at least feel confident that things will turn out all right. When it comes to choosing what to watch or read, I gravitate toward entertainment that provides an escape from reality and ends on a happy note.
My favorite genres are thought-provoking fiction, romance, and cozy mysteries. For example, I know that in Agatha Christie’s books, nothing truly bad will ever happen to Miss Marple—she will always unravel the mystery in the end. There’s a certain reassurance in returning to stories where the characters overcome challenges and everything is resolved by the final chapter.
Sometimes, I find myself wishing that my life resembled the books I read—that I was simply living through the first act, with something greater waiting just beyond the everyday routine. But as we all know, real life isn’t fiction, and most of us don’t get a guaranteed happily ever after.
