See The Downtown Hipster for the background on this one.
Date #2: It took two weeks to set up our second date--even though we were meeting under the auspices of a "friendly" get-together. We thought it would be fun to do something on a weekday, since we were both mostly unemployed, but he kept getting called in to work on various freelance projects at the last minute, or so he said.
Still rusty with my dating skills, I was the one to throw out there that we meet up at the MOMA for the Tim Burton exhibit. I suppose I should have just let him make the plans, but I wanted to see the show before it left and he appeared to need help. He said that was a great idea, he had a membership and that he'd meet me at the MOMA bar at noon, which, having observed his drinking skills from our first date, I wasn't thrilled about.
Signs of Hope: We never specified which MOMA entrance we would meet at, so by the time we texted and phoned to find each other and he came bounding toward me, we were already laughing. The ice was broken and I suddenly knew I was in trouble. The trouble usually starts with me realizing, "He's cute" in a way that really does use italics.
Wandering the exhibit was fun, and though it was hard to concentrate due to high levels of giddiness, we agreed Tim Burton must be a Ramones fan because he puts Joey Ramone-like stripes on almost everything. Afterward, standing outside in the cold, we were trying to figure out where to go for lunch.
"I leave it up to you," I said.
"How about Fred's. it's the restaurant at the top of Barney's. I go there with my mom when she's in town," he said.
I was beginning to get it: he had high-class vision somewhere in his downtown attitude. As soon as we walked in, I felt like we were crashing some kind of Upper East Side reception.
They gave us a corner table, which was too perfect for our catty agenda because we proceeded to scrutinize the other lunchgoers, guessing which were Friday afternoon affairs and what exactly the percentage of plastic-to-real was in the room. I laughed til I cried. I was so at ease that when the waitress asked if we wanted to take our leftovers and #100 said he didn't do leftovers, I said, "I do."
Afterward, I visited the ladies room and when I walked back out and walked up to him, he kissed me. Giddy, indeed.
We took the escalator down from Fred's, ogling the clothes. He tried to impress me with his knowledge of fashion, guessing that one particular crinkly dress was an Issey Miyake. It was a good guess, but it wasn't. We walked across the bottom of Central Park toward Columbus Circle, during which I confided my somewhat twisted, but unrequited, desire to be a high-class hooker. He said, "Yeah, my buddies will say, 'Hey, where's your girl? And I'll say, 'She's with another dude, but it's cool.'" I was sort of excited at the prospect of being "his girl."
Once at Columbus Circle, we wound up on a sofa at the Samsung store in the Time Warner Center where I had the unmistakable urge to melt into him.
Red Flags: None to speak of, although we did part ways with no real plan for a third date.
Turning Point: The moment I saw him at the MOMA, I was hooked.
Diagnosis: For him: Interested? Yes. Emotionally available? Too soon to tell.
For me: I haven't really even dated anyone in three years, so just the fact that I'm attracted to someone and it's gone further than a far-off crush is kind of thrilling. Plus, Tim Burton and Fred's turned out to be the way to my heart.
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