I’m a girl who prefers to cannonball back into the game rather than just sliding in but time is tempering this impatient chick’s heart. And the benefits of dipping my toe back into the pool…perhaps it suits me best at this moment in time.
Sigh. Enough with the metaphors – I went on my first date for this go-around…and well…WELL.
The set up – I was out to dinner with vegan buddy. In between courses, I updated him on all the “fun” correspondences I’ve been (not) having with the gents online. Then I showed him how the “locals app” function worked and the messages I can get from that venue. Color him intrigued.
We soon came upon a fellow I thought relatively attractive. My friend, ever the quick learner, was keen on utilizing the locals app, insisting I approach the guy NOW. Somehow, I found myself (reluctantly) agreeing to do this. With his matchmaking gleeful cheer, he hit the “Let’s Meet” button and, with bated breath and dessert in our mouths, we waited for random guy’s response.
Ten minutes or so passed and I assumed I was rejected. Patience is not one of my virtues. The vegan meal we just had wasn’t doing me any favors (damn vegan fried food!) so I was happy to let that one go – gassy girls aren’t really cute even if you looked like Angelina Jolie. So, in keeping with my stupid luck, random fellow NATURALLY was ready and more than willing to meet me in any part of town within the hour. Oh. My. Gawd. The “joy” of the internet/smartphone age.
My beaming vegan friend proudly stated – he wants to meet “us!” Yes, I was no longer a single unit but a community of two. I guess it’s only fair since my friend did all the button pushing and message dictating. Oh to be in service of a gay man’s whimsy!
Oh and since “we” were meeting him, maybe “we” should actually READ his profile. Turned out his profile wasn’t bad (he knew how to punctuate!) and my only misgiving was his height – only one inch taller than me. Gah. But as my friend said…”an inch is still an inch even if it’s an angry inch.” Bastard. He knew me too well – referencing gay musicals is the way to my dirty little heart.
Fine. “We” will meet him. After some waiting and edited texting, our date was set – Irish pub across the street. Done and done.
Left my pal, took a deep breath and walked into the bar. (Sounds like the beginning of a joke…read on!)
Walked in on time (more or less) and went straight up to the bar. Was about to order my drink when he tapped me on the shoulder. My impression – my initial wariness of his height turned out to be a non-issue when he was staring at me face to face. Yay me. Perhaps I’m not THAT shallow after all. He looked just like his picture – attractive but there was one thing the picture didn’t quite capture…more on that later…
Whatever the case, got my drink and he paid for it. Felt a bit lame as I was short of cash (who the fuck knew I was going on a date?!) so he stepped in and got it for me. Nice gesture and I appreciated. Plus he liked my pick of venue – he was doing well enough a minute into the game but oh, the games have merely just begun…
Drinks in hand, we quickly sat down and then the interview process began. Interview being the operative word and I was the one asking the questions. The ONLY one asking the questions. The nice start was now unraveling before my eyes. One thing was clear – this needed to be cut short. Maybe it was the residual stuffed sinuses but I just couldn’t think of a way out. I just clutched my drink like it was a sad little lifeline. I don’t think I’ve ever been so conscious of a drink in my hand and the frequency in which I was sipping. I was sipping so much, I had to take smaller sips as my drink was depleting faster than I intended. Get another drink you say? Well, hi…cash flow issue and I did not want to prolong my stay.
But enough about me…the guy? Well beyond the height, I noticed fairly early on that he had crazy eyes. Or should I call it the death stare? It was as if his life depended on eye contact. And not just normal, courteous eye contact but I’M GONNA STARE YOU DOWN LIKE A SLIGHTLY INTENSE CREEPY FELLOW all night long. I won’t say it freaked me out. It just made me uneasy. Uneasy enough to keep on sipping.
I’m not great at feeling out attraction vibes from men but if I had to offer up an educated guess, I think the guy was pleased to see me. Perhaps that would account for the crazy eyes. The image still haunts me. (Shudder) I try to keep pretty decent eye contact but I found my eyes wandering all over the place cuz the stare was too intense. I just wanted to scream at him – STOP LOOKING AT ME…STOP TRYING TO STEAL MY SOUL! No really, stop.
But I didn’t. I was polite. And I continued my line of questioning.
It still confounds me how conversations die. I sat there, more than holding up my end of the chat. I would offer up avenues to go down. He would answer with fairly interesting thoughts and then it would. Just. Die. Nothing. I don’t generally mind silences but when the silence was accompanied by THE STARE…do you see my dilemma?
When he finally did bother to ask me questions, he asked me one of my most hated ones – where are you from? California. No, really…your family? This is what I like to call the ethnicity question. I get it a lot and from the most well meaning of caucasian men but this always counts as a point against them. I won’t go into all the reasons why but if you are a person of color and you get this question…well, it blows. But tonight, fuck it! Cuz at least it meant the conversation could have some sense of flow. If I kept talking, maybe the eyes would get tired and look less…intense…or at the very least…AWAY FROM ME!
Beyond the crazy eyes, I think he had a bit of a little man complex. Napoleon complex – whatever you want to call it. If my tick was constantly bringing the glass to my lips, his was this strange move in which he would simultaneously fix his shirt and flex his biceps at me. It was perplexing to say the least. Just. Odd.
In total, it took about an hour. By the time both drinks were finished (I was sucking on the ice cubes), he gave me three options:
1. stay for another
2. change venues
3. go home
Guess which one I went for?
He seemed to have taken it in stride. For all his crazy staring, he was nice enough. Just not for me. I walked him to his car and we had an awkward 5 second moment. I was praying he wouldn’t go in for a kiss…he didn’t. Instead he shook my hand. Uh…ok.
No matter…it was done and I was freed from the death stare. I practically ran all the way home, I felt so…FREE! Die death stare…DIE! (Poor guy – he was nice…REALLY!)
My assessment – overall, I’ve clearly been on better dates but this wasn’t horrible. Just awkward. No matter though, within minutes of our parting, I realized how glad I was about this bizarro last minute date. Why? Mostly because it made me reminded me of how capable I am of making the right choices in my romantic life.
For months, I’ve been filled with regret and doubt about the paths I’ve chosen. In my lowest moments, I thought maybe was naive enough to be had. Not so. Connection is rare and it’s nights like tonight in which that becomes resoundingly clear. Connections aren’t easy. They’re not supposed to be a dime a dozen. When something works, it just does. And the choices I made were purposeful. They were good. They were right. For me.
The spark…it’s how relationships begin. How we began. And while I didn’t necessarily love where it ended up, I know WHY we began. I just needed to remember I knew it was the right leap to take. That when a spark is ignited, you let it burn. Tonight I remembered all of that. All the whys and the why nots fell by the wayside.
I can’t explain away decisions I’ve made. I’m not always the most logical of women. I go with my gut and I am guided by intuition and plagued by over thinking. After being hurt for so long, I wasn’t always sure my instincts could be trusted. How odd that a random fellow gave me back that belief in myself within the hour. Ha. Life is indeed mysterious.
Ahhhh…well next up is Schmoe. Meeting on Tuesday. As for the other fellas – never heard back from Ginger or Cute Guy. At this point, I’m going to assume they’re dead in the water. Alas. But things work out the way they need to…one way or another.
bornoutofbourbon 