The LSG Explains It All

The cute thing about being the LSG in your group of friends (that's the Last Single Girl, you silly) is that you get to impress all your Old Saggy Married Friends with your dating prowess and general knowledge of the MSG. (Modern Single Guy. Please try to keep up or this will take forever.)

The most recent example of this came at a Dayton Dragons game, with one of my old (she is thirty three days older than me and looks every minute of it)(nothing on her sags, though, dammit) married friends and her seven year old son. The baseball game, a present from me to the little boy, fell on the night after what we were trying to decide was a third date or not. You know ... the third date. I'm paraphrasing, of course, and in some places just totally making shit up, but the conversation went something like this:

"Third date, huh?" OSMF.
"Oh yeah. I mean, sort of. I think. Third ... ish." Me.
We promptly set about trying to determine exactly which date number I was on. Really, though, if you read between the lines, we were trying to determine whether or not I'm a slut. I'll summarize.

First date: Group date. To a karaoke bar. (Everyone who has ever heard me sing is cracking up or cringing for me right now.) Turns out, I later learned, he had no idea who I was, what I was doing there, or that there was a setup happening. Call me old-fashioned but I'm not tallying this one up in the date category.

Second date: Just the two of us, after he politely called me up on the phone to invite me to drinks and dinner. Totally a date. By every definition, a really nice date.

Third date: This is where things start to get murky. Another big group, to a Reds game. Somewhere in upwards of 100 degrees, and mass amounts of sweat was produced by all. Kind of a date, but mostly just me and a girlfriend knocking small children out of the way so we could hog the mister fans.

Next few dates: Actually a combination of evenings, taking place at the wine bar below the yoga studio where I have a mad crush on my new yoga instructor. Seriously, she's beautiful and flexible and spiritual. I love her. Love her. A few of these nights ended, very late, with him giving me funny looks because all I could talk about was my adorable yoga instructor.

Somewhere around maybe the sixth date: I climbed his tree. This is not, as my dirtier-minded friends assumed, and as you probably did as well you dirty-minded reader, a euphemism. I actually climbed his tree. He mentioned cutting it down, he did some grilling, we went to Krogers like an old married couple, I inexplicably climbed a tree, it was my favorite night so far.

So now OSMF is up to date, you're up to date, let's continue. I should mention here this particular OSMF was responsible for the initial set up, so she's practically gloating. And right now, while her seven year old is distracted by baseball and an inconceivable amount of food, she gives me the look.

"Awww. That's really cute. I'm so happy for you." I thank her. She keeps giving me the look. "So...?"
"So what?" I love playing dumb. Or not, since she hits me hard in the arm.
"I knew it." I don't know how she thinks she knew it, but apparently, she did. Now she's really gloating. "So can I see pictures of him on Facebook?" This is not where I expect her line of questioning to go, and I am momentarily taken aback.
"Facebook?"
"Did you change your status?"
"Whaaaat? I'm not his Facebook friend, for fuck's sake." It's like she just accused me of having a casual heroin habit. My voice gets so high-pitched the plastic Bud Light bottle the man next to me is holding threatens to crack. Bud Light man gives me a look of his own, one that says I probably shouldn't say "fuck" in the presence of a seven year old.

OSMF looks at me with obvious and -- if we're being honest, here, which clearly we are -- understandable confusion. Skepticism, you may even say.

"So... wait a sec. You guys --"
"Yep."
"I mean, like, all the w --"
"Mmm hmm."
"And which date was it again?"
"Five and three quarters, I believe." I say this with the celibate pride of the well-disciplined and self-controlled.
"But ... you won't Facebook friend him?"
"Noooo. God no. He'll think I'm a clingy stalker."
"Okay."

The nice thing about having lifelong friends is that they get you. And also, they are so generally worn out by you that they just can't muster the strength to ask for clarification.

There you have it.  A brief glimpse into the perplexing world of the LSG, and her appropriate non-use of the Friend Request Button. If there is anything else I can help you understand, please do not hesitate to ask.