Every Frog Has a Silver Lining

So I was sitting with some girlfriends at dinner last night and as talk turned to my dating life I pulled up my sleeve to reveal something shocking to them all: a hickey. I have not had a hickey in over a decade, so it was traumatic to have to share this with them, but I was also bubbling with information about the crush who had been the one to give me the hickey.

"What happened?" asked one of my friends. "I read your blog on Friday. Last I heard you were..."

"Getting stood up?" She nodded with a smile. To which I replied, "Oh, that."

And so began our discussion of what has in a Minneapolis minute become the whirlwind of my dating life. In less than a weekend I have shifted my mindset about dating: no longer am I pining and whining and wishing and hoping. Now I am researching, exploring, trying things out, making observations, not committing to anyone and saying yes to most invitations--in short, when it comes to dating, I have become a guy. 

Or perhaps a biologist.

It has occurred to me that the best tool in the dating scene is a certain degree of levity and amusement. Thus, I have given up the fairy tale, foregone the romance of movies, and stopped expecting the frogs to turn into princes. Now I just see them as frogs who will stay frogs. The question is what kind of frog do I want to hang out with?

In my research so far, I have catalogued a number of different species, with Darwinian zeal. There are the vile cane toads, that awful invasive species now poisoning everything in sight in Australia. To be on a date with a cane toad is to be looking for exits in restaurants. Then there's the garden toad--fairly harmless, but the kind of date that makes you question why you got off the couch and out of your sweatpants. My favorite amphibian to date is the shiny green tree frog. They are charming and adorable and have soft, white bellies, and occasionally they will even chirp in a moderately endearing way. 

I have also learned, in my exploration of this amphibious species, that it's smart, sometimes, to give a frog a second chance. My frog from last Thursday, (not the hickey-giving frog, but the one that stood me up because I suggested it to him) contacted me all weekend, and so I gave him another chance and suggested we hang out Monday (post-dinner with the girls). Monday night came and so did frustration. In two hours of sporadic texting we could not come up with a plan to hang out. I was losing patience with the frog. I thought to myself--at least he's taking himself out of the running. Now I won't have to worry about how I will squeeze him into the line up. Like Darwin pointed out--a species must adapt or become extinct. There has to be a way to thin the heard in the quest for finding a decent frog.

Just as I was about to mark this strand of amphibian legally extinct in my observation notebook, he called. He proposed we grab a drink. I was already in sweatpants, and the vindictive side of me wanted to say no, but then the explorer side of me said--it's in the name of research! And so I went.

Here's what I learned: some frogs let you down and stay their normal lumpy, slimy selves; some frogs surprise you and put on a top hat and tap shoes and start singing "Hello, my baby, hello, my darling" just like the delightful little frog on the WB. This particular frog was just such a frog. He put a smile on my face and I learned all sorts of new facts about the species. In fact, this frog once did the worm in a chain with four other guys in high school during a pep-fest while wearing overalls and wife beaters with one strap undone. Such hilarious information is bound to make any good researcher smile.

Even when she gets home.

Even when she wakes up the next day.