Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
The house is small but all mine. Three rooms downstairs, two upstairs, and a sliver of a backyard where Buttermilk occasionally gets supervised zoomies in a large freestanding pen I have for him. The porch creaks when I step on it, the front door sticks unless you hip-check it, and the crown molding is probably older than I am, but it’s stunning.
“Just once,” I mutter, obviously still bent out of shape over that disaster of a date, “I’d like a man to call me sexy and too hot to handle.”
I walk through the door, kick off my shoes, and I’m immediately met by the dull thump of judgment.
“Buttermilk.” I sigh. “You’re supposed to pretend to care.”
My rabbit—round, fluffy and chronically unimpressed—glares up at me from his pen, where he has plenty of room to hop around but can’t cause destruction in my house. He’s a Holland Lop, creamy fur with a tiny patch of brown on his nose, and he’s a solid eight pounds of pure disdain. I adopted him on a whim after another bad date—clearly a recurring theme in my life—and now I couldn’t imagine life without him, despite his hypercritical nature.
I open the gate to give him free rein of the house. As much as I like to complain about the fur-monster, he’s smart as a whip and trained to go potty in his litter box. The only reason he stays penned when I’m away is that he gets pissed at me for abandoning him and then chews holes in my furniture to express his feelings.
Buttermilk hops through the open gate and up to his feeding bowl before turning his back to me. He chews hay with aggressive disinterest.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m late. I’m always late.”
I toss a handful of fresh arugula into his dish, then stroke a hand down his soft, floppy ears. He allows it begrudgingly. “You know, you might be the best relationship I’ve ever had.”
He responds by thumping once more, his version of a dismissive snort. “Yeah, I know. Depressing.”
I flip on a lamp, collapse onto the couch, and scroll mindlessly. Two new brand emails—one from my favorite ethical skin care company, Glow & Steady, and another from Morning Mirth Tea, reminding me to post about their new chamomile blend. I sigh, bookmarking those for tomorrow.
A text from my mom flashes. How’d it go? Is this the lawyer or the investment banker?
I ignore it because my answer right now would be self-pitying. What does it really matter, Mom? What does it matter?
Instead, I open the TikTok app. Scroll. Think. Then pause.
An idea strikes for a video. Not about the bad date itself, because I’ve done that on too many occasions. But maybe it’s time to use the power of my platform to give myself some better options.
I glance toward Buttermilk, who’s now nestled into the corner of the couch like a small, furry deity.
I tell him my idea. Yes… I talk to my rabbit. When I’m finished, I ask, “What do you think? Too cringe?”
He thumps twice.
“Helpful.”
I drag my ring light out of the closet and set it up in the living room, clipping my phone in the center. I check my face in the bathroom mirror. Most of my makeup is intact, but I do wipe a smudge of mascara from beneath one eye. I might espouse normality in women, but I do have some vain vices, and makeup is one. I wear it to give myself a slight transformation from average to a tiny bit pretty.
But that’s a mask and it would defeat the nature of my experiment. I run the water until it’s warm and wash my skin free of makeup. I slather on hyaluronic acid and moisturizer, then put some balm on my lips. I stare at my fresh-faced reflection, quietly praising my best features. Shoulder-length warm brown hair with natural golden highlights that I usually wear in a scrunchie while teaching, and hazel eyes that seem to shift from green to gold.
“Let’s do this,” I say, glancing at Buttermilk as I walk back to the couch. He’s sound asleep, back little thumper leg twitching as if he’s running from a fox in his dream.
I settle into the cushions, turn on the ring light and hit record.
“Hey, Pittsburgh besties… grab a cup of tea, pet something soft, and mentally prepare yourselves, because I’ve got another dating disaster for the archives.”
I reach over and pull a sleeping Buttermilk onto my lap. He’s strangely docile, happily curling into me. I stroke his fur for courage.
“Tonight’s date? Buckle up. He spent thirty minutes explaining the microbiology of public restrooms. Thirty. Minutes. I now know more about hand dryers than a Dyson engineer.”
I give the camera a long, impassive stare.
“He also called me ‘refreshingly average’—which I’m pretty sure was meant as a compliment?—and referenced his ex seven times. I counted. It was like she was on the date with us. But invisible. And judging me.”