Column: Making it in Missoula

The Problem With Making It

By Little Sis, 4-12-07

Ok, I’m gonna be honest.  I’ve been sitting here for an hour trying think of a witty, attention-grabbing topic.  I considered writing about some dating experience in the past, but nothing came rushing out (I didn’t have one in mind, plus I think I’ve already written about all the good ones).  And of course, weather is the no-fail conversation piece, right?  But come on.  I’ve apparently reached a new low.  Here’s what I had so far:

“In Walking Down the Wild, Gary Ferguson writes that winter is a long time retreating in Montana.  He writes that we live in a land without a real spring; you get excited by some mild weather and leave your house in only a shirt, and come back in the middle of a blizzard cursing your optimism. 

But yesterday, finally, the thermometer reached its highest temperature in months (and months, and months. . .).  Our backyard thermometer—dubbed the coldest one in town, under a giant pine tree on the side of the house in perpetual shade—triumphantly read a balmy 64 degrees.  As expected, such a high temperature catalyzed a flurry of activity.”

Obviously not a pivotal topic.

The reason for my lack of creativity is—feel free to gasp in disbelief here—that I’ve been dating one man for nearly three months now (yes, the same man).  This presents a bit of an obstacle in my contributions to a dating column.

For example, I no longer want to dredge up previous self-deprecating episodes of my single life for your amusement. This is mainly because my new sweetie might not think they’re so hilarious when he recognizes the true identity under the “character” name, but also because I run the risk of looking stupid (I obviously don’t care if you guys think that, based on my past confessions, but this man is important).

This doesn’t mean that just because I’ve fallen headlong into a relationship I don’t have the classic Missoula-esque stories that this column favors to go with it.  Oh, trust me, I do.  We met at the Old Post, shared beer our first beer at the Kettlehouse, and went on our first “real” date at Snowbowl (I wowed him with my astonishing ski skills after a pitcher of Blackfoot IPA; everyone watching the Griz run from the chair was probably worried I had a concussion. . .)

And yes, there will always be those ironic connections, that are horribly awkward at the time and only funny in hindsight (like after a few drinks).  As we stood at the bar of my favorite brewery once—guess which one it is—I noticed another couple by the window.  We exchanged the glances that only 4 people who’ve swapped spit can share.  It’s fun. 

But the problem is that I don’t want to share the details of all of these happenings.  I’m a little bit smitten (okay, I’m attached at the hip) and I’m pretty sure that divulging the “in-hindsight-they’re-funny” details wouldn’t be real attractive.

However, I’m more than happy to write about the details of your life! Come on, I shared mine for months.  We’ll give you a pen name.  Or, you can just send me some exciting anecdotes, and I’ll write a story without even using your name . . . even though you know it’s just a matter of time before everyone figures out who you are in this town. . .  No, seriously, send me your stories at littlesis@newwest.net.

And, just to honor my weather composition that didn’t make the cut:

What did you do when the thermometer hit 67 degrees on Sunday?

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