This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa 1999, Chicago.
Vital Stats: 27. 6'0". Thin and lanky. Artist and gallery owner. Divorced from a woman he'd married to help her out with a green card, although it ended up becoming a real--though tumultuous--marriage, he said. Aesthetic: Long-haired artsy leather-jacketed bad boy. Demeanor: But he was so not a bad boy.
First Impression: It was the spring of '99 and I and my gay boyfriends were gallery-hopping around Wicker Park. At one gallery, we spied #73. Clad in black leather, he was svelte, with long brown hair held back in a ponytail and a soul patch on his angular chin.
I walked up to the painting he was looking at, a sizeable canvas with gray and black streaks, and he turned to me and said, "I don't even know what to do with this."
"Me either," I said. We walked down the row of paintings, critiquing them as we went.
It turned out he knew one of the people in our group, so we hit a few more galleries together, he got my number and then called for a date a day or so later.
First Date: Dinner at an Italian restaurant on Clark Street. We sat down and he told me he had some bad news. "I'm moving to California in a month," he said. It had just come up. A friend of his had opened an art school, needed a curator for the school's gallery and offered #73 the job. We could still see each other if I wanted to, he said, it was up to me. "Sure, why not?" I was game. But, at that moment, a part of me turned off. The date ended when the bill came and he said, "I'll get this one if you get the next one." I was OK with conditional dinners back then.
Second Date: Dinner at Jane, a restaurant in Wicker Park. I vaguely remember the date being filled with all kinds of sexual innuendo from his side of the table because I recall a feeling of flattered discomfort. I paid for dinner, as previously agreed, and he drove me home, parking and opening the door for me. Making out against the side of his truck, he told me he thought he'd been a perfect gentleman on our first date and had earned a trip upstairs. I invited him upstairs. Apparently, I was OK with guilt-induced seduction back then, too.
Signs of Hope: For the next month, we saw each other. I'd stay over his place or he'd stay over mine. Sometimes he'd sit me down in his gallery, stare into my eyes and repeat over and over, "Pretty, pretty, pretty." Other times he'd surprise me and pick me up on his motorcycle. We even had a running joke about a custody battle over a stuffed animal I had--a bear in a duck costume I'd named Duck-Bear. I was even at his place the morning of Columbine...
Red Flags: ...But I don't even recall the events of that morning bringing us together. It also happened that a few times he had to cancel at the last minute because he "had to help mom with [painting, fixing things, etc.] around the house," he always said. That could have been a red flag, but maybe it was more of a red flag that I didn't really care. I never got attached, never complained, never told him what I was unhappy about (the sex). There was no need. On the day he packed his U-Haul, I went over and put Duck-Bear in his truck. I was just looking for an excuse to go to San Francisco.
A Month Later: On a mission to retrieve Duck-Bear, I visited him in the Oakland Hills--incidentally, it was the weekend JFK Jr. went missing. He took me around and showed me the gallery he was curating. It was a nice time considering I was checked out. We even had what could have been a bonding moment after a minor motorcycle accident where we hit a deer. We were OK, although I was never truly sure about the deer. Or the bonding moment.
After that trip, we kept in touch and, in early 2000, I had to suddenly fly out to California for a funeral. I arranged to spend my last night in San Francisco and told him I was coming out. He picked me up in the redwood forest, where my family was doing some post-funeral sightseeing, and he drove me back to San Francisco. He told me about a woman he'd met, so I assumed we were just friends now. He said he'd picked out a fabulous restaurant that he wanted to take me to.
Turning Point: Assuming we were just friends, I didn't expect much to happen. But then, over dinner, he told me that if he'd stayed in Chicago, he would have fallen in love with me. I wasn't really sure what to do with the information and it actually made me a little mad--although I didn't tell him that. Maybe he was expecting a similar response in return, but I couldn't give it. And then, when the bill came, he didn't have enough money to cover even half of it. That made me madder--although I didn't tell him that either. And then I brought him back to my hotel room with me, where, even though I was still mad, he still stayed over. I flew home the next day and, except for a drunken, late-night email where I finally decided to tell him how mad I was, we never spoke again.
Diagnosis: Aside from the fact that our relationship was strangely surrounded by tragedy (Columbine, JFK Jr., the California funeral)...
For him: ...Poor guy. He was doing his best--even though he did have poor dating skills. He really liked me but had no idea he was dealing with an unavailable heart. Was he emotionally unavailable? I wouldn't know. But moving clear across the country didn't help.
For me: His confession, instead of opening my heart, closed it even more.
Plus, the message I got from the whole experience was that if I never complained and never expressed how I felt about anything, men would fall in love with me.
Check out Summer of Love, Part 2 and Part 3.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #74: Summer of Love, Part 2
This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa summer 1999, Chicago.
Vital Stats: 5'10"ish. 25. Environmental engineer living at home with his parents but saving his money for his Jersey shore share (crafty!). Aesthetic: Tan, trim, and boy did he look good in a crisp white shirt. Demeanor: The original gentleman from Jersey.
Background: On 4th of July weekend, I road-tripped with two of my gay boyfriends (if I haven't already mentioned it, most of my friends in the late '90s were gay men), Matt, a hipster before the term became derogatory, and Nigel-Dave, a ringer for David Bowie, from Chicago to the Jersey Shore. On our first night there, I made it my mission to kiss someone before the night was through. Bar-hopping, we stumbled upon a cover band at a club. I spotted #74 from across the crowded room, maneuvered my way closer to him, caught his attention and one of us--and I don't remember who--struck up a conversation. [Note: Wow, I really did that? Me in 1999=Bold.]
After talking to him for a while on the dance floor, he asked if I wanted to go talk at the bar downstairs, which we did. And then #12 said he knew of a party and invited us, so we went. At the party, #74 and I made out on the deck for a while, completing my mission and causing one girl to comment in disgust ("She was just jealous," Matt said). Saying good-bye to Matt and Nigel-Dave, I went back to his share house, to a share room--where there was someone else actually sharing the room, passed-out drunk I've chosen to believe--and, there, my mission far surpassed all of its original expectations. We talked in the dark for a few hours, during which he confided that none of his relationships seemed to make it past the three-month mark.
The next morning, he drove me back to the house where I was staying. I said good-bye and bounded into Matt's bedroom, waking him up by bouncing up and down on the twin bed I was supposed to have slept in and sing-songing, "I just ha-ad my first one-night sta-and." It really felt like an accomplishment. I was proud, like I deserved some kind of Girl Scout badge--for a Girl Scout gone bad.
I thought that was the end of it, but, when we came home from the beach that day, there was a note in the door from #74 saying he was going to be at a club that night. I and my boyfriends never made it to the club and, again, I thought that was the end of it. But I had told him where I worked and, after I'd gone back to Chicago, he hunted me down via email over my company's web site.
A few weeks later, he flew to Chicago, where we had a fun but debaucherous weekend. A few weeks after that, I flew to his cousin's wedding in Philly, where, staying at his parents' house, which was a tad awkward, where, just to remind you, he was living at the time, we still managed to have a fun but debaucherous weekend. A few weeks after that, I had a business trip to New York and he drove up from Jersey for one fun but debaucherous night.
Signs of Hope: All the hunting-down and keeping-in-touch he was doing. He turned a one-night stand into a long-distance, multi-night stand, which, really, was such a compliment.
Red Flags: He lived hundreds of miles away in New Jersey. And none of his relationships made it past the three-month mark.
Turning Point: At the three-month mark, he disappeared.
Update: He resurfaced and friended me on Facebook a few years ago without including a message. One of his other Facebook friends was "Beer."
Diagnosis: For him: Available, with a three-month expiration date. As far as I can tell, he's still single.
For me: At least I got to cross "First One-Night Stand" off of my accomplishments checklist. That, and, for the record, #74 was my favorite of the Summer of Love guys.
Check out Summer of Love, Part 1 and Part 3.
Vital Stats: 5'10"ish. 25. Environmental engineer living at home with his parents but saving his money for his Jersey shore share (crafty!). Aesthetic: Tan, trim, and boy did he look good in a crisp white shirt. Demeanor: The original gentleman from Jersey.
Background: On 4th of July weekend, I road-tripped with two of my gay boyfriends (if I haven't already mentioned it, most of my friends in the late '90s were gay men), Matt, a hipster before the term became derogatory, and Nigel-Dave, a ringer for David Bowie, from Chicago to the Jersey Shore. On our first night there, I made it my mission to kiss someone before the night was through. Bar-hopping, we stumbled upon a cover band at a club. I spotted #74 from across the crowded room, maneuvered my way closer to him, caught his attention and one of us--and I don't remember who--struck up a conversation. [Note: Wow, I really did that? Me in 1999=Bold.]
After talking to him for a while on the dance floor, he asked if I wanted to go talk at the bar downstairs, which we did. And then #12 said he knew of a party and invited us, so we went. At the party, #74 and I made out on the deck for a while, completing my mission and causing one girl to comment in disgust ("She was just jealous," Matt said). Saying good-bye to Matt and Nigel-Dave, I went back to his share house, to a share room--where there was someone else actually sharing the room, passed-out drunk I've chosen to believe--and, there, my mission far surpassed all of its original expectations. We talked in the dark for a few hours, during which he confided that none of his relationships seemed to make it past the three-month mark.
The next morning, he drove me back to the house where I was staying. I said good-bye and bounded into Matt's bedroom, waking him up by bouncing up and down on the twin bed I was supposed to have slept in and sing-songing, "I just ha-ad my first one-night sta-and." It really felt like an accomplishment. I was proud, like I deserved some kind of Girl Scout badge--for a Girl Scout gone bad.
I thought that was the end of it, but, when we came home from the beach that day, there was a note in the door from #74 saying he was going to be at a club that night. I and my boyfriends never made it to the club and, again, I thought that was the end of it. But I had told him where I worked and, after I'd gone back to Chicago, he hunted me down via email over my company's web site.
A few weeks later, he flew to Chicago, where we had a fun but debaucherous weekend. A few weeks after that, I flew to his cousin's wedding in Philly, where, staying at his parents' house, which was a tad awkward, where, just to remind you, he was living at the time, we still managed to have a fun but debaucherous weekend. A few weeks after that, I had a business trip to New York and he drove up from Jersey for one fun but debaucherous night.
Signs of Hope: All the hunting-down and keeping-in-touch he was doing. He turned a one-night stand into a long-distance, multi-night stand, which, really, was such a compliment.
Red Flags: He lived hundreds of miles away in New Jersey. And none of his relationships made it past the three-month mark.
Turning Point: At the three-month mark, he disappeared.
Update: He resurfaced and friended me on Facebook a few years ago without including a message. One of his other Facebook friends was "Beer."
Diagnosis: For him: Available, with a three-month expiration date. As far as I can tell, he's still single.
For me: At least I got to cross "First One-Night Stand" off of my accomplishments checklist. That, and, for the record, #74 was my favorite of the Summer of Love guys.
Check out Summer of Love, Part 1 and Part 3.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #75: Summer of Love, Part 3
This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa summer 1999, Chicago.
Vital Stats: 22. 5'10"ish. Aesthetic: Sexy, tattooed skateboarder who was also not just in a band but the lead singer and guitarist in the band. (In 1999, that was pretty much my dream guy.) Demeanor: Total puppy dog.
First Impression: I'd seen #75 around the bars for months, mostly my local, the L&L Tavern at Clark and Belmont. All my gay boyfriends had crushes on him and I'm not one to be competitive, even though he was playing on my team. He was four years younger than me, which, at 26, seemed huge, so I didn't give him much of a thought, until one night...
One Night: It was the night after I'd returned from my business trip to New York, during which #74 had accompanied me back to my hotel room. Some of my boyfriends and I were down at the L&L and #75 was paying quite a bit of attention to me. I don't know if it was the light from the jukebox glinting off of his bleach blond hair as he leaned in to choose a song or if it was the whiskey-tinted gleam in his bedroom eyes as he sidled up to me at the bar, but he had me.
The group of us, including #75, decided to crawl over to Berlin, the gay nightclub down the street. By this time, it was clear we were together, in the casual sense, and at one point in the club he leaned in to me and said, "I really want to kiss you." Having been bolstered by an illicit drug that I'd tried for the first time that night, that was that. Minutes later, we were outside. He took me around the side of the club and kissed me against a wall. There was an old discarded upholstered armchair a little further down the alley and #75 happened to have a condom on him. He said, "Hey, wouldn't it be awesome..."
Signs of Hope: #75 and I had a bunch in common. His birthday was the day after mine, so we were both Virgos and...
Red Flags: Aside from the fact that I'd embarked upon some kind of slutty phase, which should have been a huge red flag, I brought #75 home a few more times that summer. Attempting to saucily stand by the bar, I'd beckon him over with a sloppy, wanton glance or just send someone over to get him or just blatantly ask him upstairs myself. One--if not the last--time he came home with me, he told me that he didn't really feel like his friends liked him. And then he cried.
Turning Point: At no time did I think of him as more than just a casual fling. But, after the time he cried, I think both of our emotionally stunted souls knew it was over.
Diagnosis: For him: I Googled him recently to discover he's now married with a child and still plays in his band, which achieved some notoriety. He also has a blog that's been noted for it's scatological humor. For that alone, it never would have worked out between us.
For me: Less than 24 hours before my night in the alley, I'd been with #74 in New York City. I suppose "summer of love" is the diplomatic way of putting it. It was a good summer.
It was also a summer of many firsts:
First one-night stand.
First usage of illicit drugs, excluding pot.
First usage of more illicit drugs, excluding pot and the illicit drugs mentioned above.
First time being with two guys within 24 hours of each other (and last, thank you).
Shortly after the summer was over, I found a postcard with a picture of a cat draped in white veils. The caption read, "No more nights in the alley." I bought 10 of them.
Check out Summer of Love, Part 1 and Part 2.
Vital Stats: 22. 5'10"ish. Aesthetic: Sexy, tattooed skateboarder who was also not just in a band but the lead singer and guitarist in the band. (In 1999, that was pretty much my dream guy.) Demeanor: Total puppy dog.
First Impression: I'd seen #75 around the bars for months, mostly my local, the L&L Tavern at Clark and Belmont. All my gay boyfriends had crushes on him and I'm not one to be competitive, even though he was playing on my team. He was four years younger than me, which, at 26, seemed huge, so I didn't give him much of a thought, until one night...
One Night: It was the night after I'd returned from my business trip to New York, during which #74 had accompanied me back to my hotel room. Some of my boyfriends and I were down at the L&L and #75 was paying quite a bit of attention to me. I don't know if it was the light from the jukebox glinting off of his bleach blond hair as he leaned in to choose a song or if it was the whiskey-tinted gleam in his bedroom eyes as he sidled up to me at the bar, but he had me.
The group of us, including #75, decided to crawl over to Berlin, the gay nightclub down the street. By this time, it was clear we were together, in the casual sense, and at one point in the club he leaned in to me and said, "I really want to kiss you." Having been bolstered by an illicit drug that I'd tried for the first time that night, that was that. Minutes later, we were outside. He took me around the side of the club and kissed me against a wall. There was an old discarded upholstered armchair a little further down the alley and #75 happened to have a condom on him. He said, "Hey, wouldn't it be awesome..."
Signs of Hope: #75 and I had a bunch in common. His birthday was the day after mine, so we were both Virgos and...
Red Flags: Aside from the fact that I'd embarked upon some kind of slutty phase, which should have been a huge red flag, I brought #75 home a few more times that summer. Attempting to saucily stand by the bar, I'd beckon him over with a sloppy, wanton glance or just send someone over to get him or just blatantly ask him upstairs myself. One--if not the last--time he came home with me, he told me that he didn't really feel like his friends liked him. And then he cried.
Turning Point: At no time did I think of him as more than just a casual fling. But, after the time he cried, I think both of our emotionally stunted souls knew it was over.
Diagnosis: For him: I Googled him recently to discover he's now married with a child and still plays in his band, which achieved some notoriety. He also has a blog that's been noted for it's scatological humor. For that alone, it never would have worked out between us.
For me: Less than 24 hours before my night in the alley, I'd been with #74 in New York City. I suppose "summer of love" is the diplomatic way of putting it. It was a good summer.
It was also a summer of many firsts:
First one-night stand.
First usage of illicit drugs, excluding pot.
First usage of more illicit drugs, excluding pot and the illicit drugs mentioned above.
First time being with two guys within 24 hours of each other (and last, thank you).
Shortly after the summer was over, I found a postcard with a picture of a cat draped in white veils. The caption read, "No more nights in the alley." I bought 10 of them.
Check out Summer of Love, Part 1 and Part 2.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #118: He's Broke
See The Five-Year Time Warp, He's Got Wheels and The Delay for the background on this one.
Perhaps now is a good time to note that there are all kinds of reasons for unavailability: he's married, he's a workaholic, he's an alcoholic, he's insecure about the fact that he doesn't make much money, he has low self-esteem, he has low self-esteem disguised as high self-esteem, he's suspicious of people, he's scatterbrained, he's mentally ill, he doesn't like women, he actually likes men, he lives thousands of miles away...and many more.
It all ultimately results in the same thing: emotional unavailability.
Disclaimer: I'm no professional, so I may just be saying all this to make myself feel better.
Date #2: Black Swan in Union Square followed by dinner at Veselka.
Signs of Hope: I must say, he's really good about sticking to plans once they're made. He called the morning of the date to find out what time I wanted to see the movie and then bought the tickets online. It turned out he was also a fanatic about getting to movies early, too, so neither one of us minded that we were the first people in the theater--at 6:50 for a 7:25 movie. He'd brought snacks. Talking before the movie, we put our heads close together-ish and he touched me a bunch on the arm when he was trying to make points. Points made.
We survived the movie--even the sexy parts. He asked if I was hungry. I said yes. And then we stood there for a while trying to figure out where to go. Finally, he came up with Veselka and we walked over, critiquing the movie. Dinner was good, conversation was good. We talked about movies and every now and then he'd say, "Do you want to see that?" Each time, it took me about a beat to figure out he meant "together." Getting it, I'd nod and smile and say, "Yeah."
He walked me home and, in front of my building, there was a kiss, on the lips, just the one, and then maybe a kiss on the cheek, and then an inhale, and then a hug, and then another inhale. The inhaling was interesting. He was smelling me. The implied meaning of the sniffing, or so I thought, was that I smelled good. It felt like a compliment, so I took it as a compliment.
"So, what's next?" he asked, looking pretty enthusiastic. I said I could look up plays in my theater club and he remembered that his friend could get him comp tickets for a show and said he'd look into it. "Maybe Friday?" he asked. "I'm around," I said.
Red Flags: When the bill came, I offered to help out and he said to just leave the tip. Then, as if he was thinking aloud--though looking at me--he said, "Maybe I'll put it on the card....I'm broke...I did deposit a check today, but I doubt it cleared yet...yeah, the card." I said I had money and could pay more, no problem, but he said just the tip was fine.
Also: Although he's good at sticking to plans once they're made, he's not so good at making plans. All that is to say that A. I'm getting too old to stand on street corners on second dates trying to figure out where to go next. And B. Even though he suggested getting together on Friday, it's now Saturday and I've heard nothing from him.
Diagnosis: For him: For the record, it's date #2 and he's told me he's broke. As I've found out from past Mr. Unavailables, they usually reveal who they are very early on. He's told me. Does "broke" mean "broken?" Not always, but, often, yes.
For me: After wrestling for a few days over whether or not to give him a little email encouragement--because he reacted well the last time--I've decided not to. Plus, do I really want to date a broke 42-year-old? I've done it before and it never ends well.
Prediction: I'm starting to think my original diagnosis might have been right on: He's a little clueless about dating. And then of course there's the whole being broke thing. I may hear from him again unless: A. Too many days pass and he's like, "Shit, too many days have passed." B. He was hoping that when he told me he was broke, I would just pay. C. He's just not all that interested. D. He's unavailable.
Perhaps now is a good time to note that there are all kinds of reasons for unavailability: he's married, he's a workaholic, he's an alcoholic, he's insecure about the fact that he doesn't make much money, he has low self-esteem, he has low self-esteem disguised as high self-esteem, he's suspicious of people, he's scatterbrained, he's mentally ill, he doesn't like women, he actually likes men, he lives thousands of miles away...and many more.
It all ultimately results in the same thing: emotional unavailability.
Disclaimer: I'm no professional, so I may just be saying all this to make myself feel better.
Date #2: Black Swan in Union Square followed by dinner at Veselka.
Signs of Hope: I must say, he's really good about sticking to plans once they're made. He called the morning of the date to find out what time I wanted to see the movie and then bought the tickets online. It turned out he was also a fanatic about getting to movies early, too, so neither one of us minded that we were the first people in the theater--at 6:50 for a 7:25 movie. He'd brought snacks. Talking before the movie, we put our heads close together-ish and he touched me a bunch on the arm when he was trying to make points. Points made.
We survived the movie--even the sexy parts. He asked if I was hungry. I said yes. And then we stood there for a while trying to figure out where to go. Finally, he came up with Veselka and we walked over, critiquing the movie. Dinner was good, conversation was good. We talked about movies and every now and then he'd say, "Do you want to see that?" Each time, it took me about a beat to figure out he meant "together." Getting it, I'd nod and smile and say, "Yeah."
He walked me home and, in front of my building, there was a kiss, on the lips, just the one, and then maybe a kiss on the cheek, and then an inhale, and then a hug, and then another inhale. The inhaling was interesting. He was smelling me. The implied meaning of the sniffing, or so I thought, was that I smelled good. It felt like a compliment, so I took it as a compliment.
"So, what's next?" he asked, looking pretty enthusiastic. I said I could look up plays in my theater club and he remembered that his friend could get him comp tickets for a show and said he'd look into it. "Maybe Friday?" he asked. "I'm around," I said.
Red Flags: When the bill came, I offered to help out and he said to just leave the tip. Then, as if he was thinking aloud--though looking at me--he said, "Maybe I'll put it on the card....I'm broke...I did deposit a check today, but I doubt it cleared yet...yeah, the card." I said I had money and could pay more, no problem, but he said just the tip was fine.
Also: Although he's good at sticking to plans once they're made, he's not so good at making plans. All that is to say that A. I'm getting too old to stand on street corners on second dates trying to figure out where to go next. And B. Even though he suggested getting together on Friday, it's now Saturday and I've heard nothing from him.
Diagnosis: For him: For the record, it's date #2 and he's told me he's broke. As I've found out from past Mr. Unavailables, they usually reveal who they are very early on. He's told me. Does "broke" mean "broken?" Not always, but, often, yes.
For me: After wrestling for a few days over whether or not to give him a little email encouragement--because he reacted well the last time--I've decided not to. Plus, do I really want to date a broke 42-year-old? I've done it before and it never ends well.
Prediction: I'm starting to think my original diagnosis might have been right on: He's a little clueless about dating. And then of course there's the whole being broke thing. I may hear from him again unless: A. Too many days pass and he's like, "Shit, too many days have passed." B. He was hoping that when he told me he was broke, I would just pay. C. He's just not all that interested. D. He's unavailable.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #118: The Delay
See The Five-Year Time Warp and He's Got Wheels for the background on this one.
Update: #118 is looking less and less available, but we're giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Here's the update:
A few days after date #1 with #118, I was sort of surprised I hadn't heard from him. And when I say sort of surprised, I mean shocked. He sent me a nice message the day after the date saying he'd had a nice time, and I'd responded likewise, but then nada. Five days after the date, I walked into my shrink's office, collapsed on her couch and admitted I was baffled. "On our date, it seemed like he wanted to go out again sooner rather than later," I said, noting how he'd suggested SundayMondayTuesday.
She suggested I call or send him a message referencing something from the date. She emphasized not to ask him out, just act interested. I was too chicken to call, so I sent him an email asking how poker night with the guys had gone. A few hours later, he got back to me saying he'd been very busy but still definitely wanted to get together. He said he'd drop me a line on Wednesday. On Wednesday, I heard nothing. Then, on Thursday, as I was walking home from the dentist, he called. I'd just had a cavity filled, so half of my face was numb from novocaine, but I answered anyway.
"If I sound funny," I warned him, "it's because half of my face is paralyzed." It was probably also a good cover in the event I sounded annoyed, which I was just a tiny, tiny, tiny bit. And by tiny, tiny, tiny bit, I mean a lot.
He laughed and said he was sorry he hadn't gotten in touch with me the day before. He meant to call but was busy with a deadline for a project. He said he had plans for Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and asked what my schedule looked like. He didn't leave a whole lot of options, so I said, "How about Sunday then?" Sunday was good for him, too--for Black Swan, or maybe dinner, or maybe a play that a friend of his could get him comp tickets for: "You're name is all over that," he said.
Sunday rolled around. He called around 1:30 and said, "Yeah, I'm going to have to cancel for tonight...I'm really sorry..."
I'm not going to lie, I was disappointed. Bummed. Annoyed. Irked. And a few other things. It turned out he'd gotten more projects with more deadlines.
"No worries," I said. "It's good to have work."
He asked me what my schedule looked like. I said I had plans on Monday. He had plans on Tuesday. So we settled on Wednesday.
Signs of Hope: At least we have another day nailed down. He brought up seeing Black Swan again saying, "Yeah, we'd better watch out. I heard it's pretty sexy...," which was cute. He offered to leave the theater for periods of time if it got too awkward. I said we could take turns.
Red Flags: If he doesn't have time to date, then he probably doesn't have time for a relationship.
Diagnosis: For him: Is it all bullshit? Two weeks between dates?
For me: If it's always going to be two weeks between dates, that probably won't work for me. For now, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt. He did call to reschedule, and said he was sorry, which is a stand-up move. Although, with my track record on second dates, who knows if I'll even like him on date #2.
Update: #118 is looking less and less available, but we're giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Here's the update:
A few days after date #1 with #118, I was sort of surprised I hadn't heard from him. And when I say sort of surprised, I mean shocked. He sent me a nice message the day after the date saying he'd had a nice time, and I'd responded likewise, but then nada. Five days after the date, I walked into my shrink's office, collapsed on her couch and admitted I was baffled. "On our date, it seemed like he wanted to go out again sooner rather than later," I said, noting how he'd suggested SundayMondayTuesday.
She suggested I call or send him a message referencing something from the date. She emphasized not to ask him out, just act interested. I was too chicken to call, so I sent him an email asking how poker night with the guys had gone. A few hours later, he got back to me saying he'd been very busy but still definitely wanted to get together. He said he'd drop me a line on Wednesday. On Wednesday, I heard nothing. Then, on Thursday, as I was walking home from the dentist, he called. I'd just had a cavity filled, so half of my face was numb from novocaine, but I answered anyway.
"If I sound funny," I warned him, "it's because half of my face is paralyzed." It was probably also a good cover in the event I sounded annoyed, which I was just a tiny, tiny, tiny bit. And by tiny, tiny, tiny bit, I mean a lot.
He laughed and said he was sorry he hadn't gotten in touch with me the day before. He meant to call but was busy with a deadline for a project. He said he had plans for Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and asked what my schedule looked like. He didn't leave a whole lot of options, so I said, "How about Sunday then?" Sunday was good for him, too--for Black Swan, or maybe dinner, or maybe a play that a friend of his could get him comp tickets for: "You're name is all over that," he said.
Sunday rolled around. He called around 1:30 and said, "Yeah, I'm going to have to cancel for tonight...I'm really sorry..."
I'm not going to lie, I was disappointed. Bummed. Annoyed. Irked. And a few other things. It turned out he'd gotten more projects with more deadlines.
"No worries," I said. "It's good to have work."
He asked me what my schedule looked like. I said I had plans on Monday. He had plans on Tuesday. So we settled on Wednesday.
Signs of Hope: At least we have another day nailed down. He brought up seeing Black Swan again saying, "Yeah, we'd better watch out. I heard it's pretty sexy...," which was cute. He offered to leave the theater for periods of time if it got too awkward. I said we could take turns.
Red Flags: If he doesn't have time to date, then he probably doesn't have time for a relationship.
Diagnosis: For him: Is it all bullshit? Two weeks between dates?
For me: If it's always going to be two weeks between dates, that probably won't work for me. For now, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt. He did call to reschedule, and said he was sorry, which is a stand-up move. Although, with my track record on second dates, who knows if I'll even like him on date #2.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #119: Coffee Date, No Sparks
Vital Stats: 40, 5'11". He was tall and had sort of wiry reddish hair. The shape of his head kind of reminded me of Ron Perlman, the actor from Hellboy and various other films--you know, sort of beastly looking. Aesthetic: He dressed kind of blandly, in a sweater and jeans. Demeanor: Mildly effeminate and somewhat shy but a good one-on-one conversationalist.
First Date: We met via the dating site Chemistry.com--we were "matched." In my three months on the site, this was my only date to come of it. We arranged to meet for coffee at Cafe Mocha in the East Village
First Impression: He walked into the cafe with almost hesitant steps and reached out to shake my hand and give me a cheek kiss, making a sad little kissy sound near my ear. With the hand shake and just the general way he moved, he seemed a little limp-limbed. Liking guys who move in more of a take-charge way, I wasn't attracted.
It also seemed as if he wasn't so attracted to me. When he walked up to me and I stood up, he sort of looked off into the distance over my right shoulder as if he had to collect his thoughts so as not to reveal his disappointment.
Signs of Hope: We were both adults, so even though it was clear neither of us were interested, we settled into our hour coffee date. He asked what happened with the job-I-didn't-want and I told him. I asked him what was going on with the literary journal he started and he said, "Oh, I brought you something." I got excited that he'd brought me a copy of the journal, but then he pulled out some bookmarks. "Oh, thanks," I said and tried to seem excited about the bookmarks. The rest of the date carried on like that, cordial but with no sparks.
Red Flags: When talking about what he was doing and what he wanted to do, he didn't really seem to want to get my--or his own--hopes up. He had been a literary magazine editor, which seemed impressive, but then he explained he didn't do it anymore and was more of a figurehead. He earned money via some kind of computer work at law firms, which seemed impressive, but then he explained that he wasn't a computer guy. He was also a playwright and even had one produced over the summer, which seemed impressive, but then he explained it was just the one and it was more of a workshop thing. In the interest of fairness, sitting there in my own unemployed state, I was no prize either.
Turning Point: None to speak of. There were no sparks from the start. At the end, he paid for our coffees, saying the employed should pay for the unemployed, which was nice, and then we parted ways in front of the cafe, with me pointing him toward the 6 train.
Diagnosis: Simple: Neither of us was interested in the other. Next.
First Date: We met via the dating site Chemistry.com--we were "matched." In my three months on the site, this was my only date to come of it. We arranged to meet for coffee at Cafe Mocha in the East Village
First Impression: He walked into the cafe with almost hesitant steps and reached out to shake my hand and give me a cheek kiss, making a sad little kissy sound near my ear. With the hand shake and just the general way he moved, he seemed a little limp-limbed. Liking guys who move in more of a take-charge way, I wasn't attracted.
It also seemed as if he wasn't so attracted to me. When he walked up to me and I stood up, he sort of looked off into the distance over my right shoulder as if he had to collect his thoughts so as not to reveal his disappointment.
Signs of Hope: We were both adults, so even though it was clear neither of us were interested, we settled into our hour coffee date. He asked what happened with the job-I-didn't-want and I told him. I asked him what was going on with the literary journal he started and he said, "Oh, I brought you something." I got excited that he'd brought me a copy of the journal, but then he pulled out some bookmarks. "Oh, thanks," I said and tried to seem excited about the bookmarks. The rest of the date carried on like that, cordial but with no sparks.
Red Flags: When talking about what he was doing and what he wanted to do, he didn't really seem to want to get my--or his own--hopes up. He had been a literary magazine editor, which seemed impressive, but then he explained he didn't do it anymore and was more of a figurehead. He earned money via some kind of computer work at law firms, which seemed impressive, but then he explained that he wasn't a computer guy. He was also a playwright and even had one produced over the summer, which seemed impressive, but then he explained it was just the one and it was more of a workshop thing. In the interest of fairness, sitting there in my own unemployed state, I was no prize either.
Turning Point: None to speak of. There were no sparks from the start. At the end, he paid for our coffees, saying the employed should pay for the unemployed, which was nice, and then we parted ways in front of the cafe, with me pointing him toward the 6 train.
Diagnosis: Simple: Neither of us was interested in the other. Next.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #111: The Measure of a Man
To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment, The Sad Ultrasound, In Between Appointments, The Last Breakfast, Arizona Convalescence and Knocking Him Off His Pedestal for the background on this one.
I've been thinking a lot about one of the last scenes in the movie Heathers, the 1989 black-comedy classic that my friends and I watched dozens of times in high school, memorizing every line. The scene goes like this: Veronica Sawyer (Winona Ryder) has a gun trained on Jason Dean, aka J.D., (Christian Slater) who's wielding a knife. They're both exhausted and bloodied in the school's boiler room, where J.D.'s planted a bomb after having killed a couple of co-eds.
They're discussing the sad state of teenager-hood and J.D. says, "What do you really want?"
"You know what I want, babe?" Veronica says. Then J.D. goes for her with the knife.
She shoots him, he collapses and she finishes her thought: "Cool guys like you out of my life."
This, I've decided, is what I want, too. Except I can't shoot #111 to get it. (And, when he doesn't die from the gunshot wound, I can't just hope that he's going to strap himself to a bomb and blow himself up. But I digress.)
Where #111 and I had left things was that we'd get lunch in a few weeks (i.e., right around now) to catch up in person. It was my idea--to be friends, to play nice, to (I secretly hoped) make him realize what a huge mistake he'd made. To tell you the truth, being in touch with him worked wonders. It got me through a suicidal Fall and then both Thanksgiving and Christmas in one piece. I'd been able to function because we had agreed to see each other again. It had given me hope.
And then two things happened. In my work life, even though I didn't want the job-I-didn't-want, I lost the job-I-didn't-want and, well, it felt really bad. My ego was thoroughly busted (to recap: I got dumped, accidentally pregnant and had now been let go from two jobs all within about three and a half months). I began to rethink things. #111 did, after all, dump me four days after I lost my previous job. And, based on the sounds of his four-year relationship as well as on what I'd experienced with him, it seemed as though he wanted something comfortable, something easy, where he could just move into his girlfriend's life and worry about nothing. Having to support a girlfriend emotionally and maybe even financially was probably not part of his plan. So it only made sense that when I got let go (the first time), he was out of there.
That's probably why--when we were emailing around Thanksgiving--it was extremely satisfying for me to share the only two good things about the job-I-didn't-want: the frozen yogurt machine and the fact that I had my own office. #111 was so competitive/jealous he never even asked what or where the job was. Or if I even liked it. He probably just assumed it was some great writing gig, which alone would be enough to make him feel bad about himself. So, having to sit across from him at lunch and tell him I'd gotten let go from yet another job did not sound like a good time. I could only imagine how smug he'd be.
And the second thing that happened? I'd actually started to move on. I'd gone on dates and had met a guy I liked.
I began to wrestle with the question: to lunch or not to lunch. I mean, why not let him believe I walked off into the sunset without him? I called Kevin one tormented night ("I can't tell if you're half asleep or bleeding out," he said). It wasn't the first time someone said what he said, but it was the first time I was ready to hear it: "I think you need to let [#111] go," he said. "He wasn't really all that great a guy."
He was right.
It reminded me of another time Kevin had some good advice. It was when I was trying to extricate myself from my feelings over My Crush:
"You need a new strategy," he said.
I asked him what that new strategy was.
"You need to move on quicker."
So simple but so brilliant. I needed a new strategy here, too. It had already been this long and I had already gotten this far and #111 and I hadn't even been together that long and there was already another guy on the horizon. And Kevin was right. #111 wasn't really that great a guy. He was kind of mean. And grumpy. And selfish.
I sat in my therapist's office and surrendered. "He wasn't really all that great," I repeated. He was, indeed, all the things above. But, most importantly, he couldn't open up. He couldn't look at himself. He couldn't be vulnerable. He showed me his vulnerable side once but that was after we'd already broken up and, as my shrink said, "he couldn't sustain it."
The last communication between us had come from him. It was the perfect way to leave things. He had the last word.
The door is still open if he wants to walk through it. But from what I know of him, he won't. And, from my side, walking through the door might only serve to get my hopes up. Or worse, if I reach out to him and he doesn't want to see me, that would only open things back up in the worst way. I've come too far right now to risk either of those things.
He really wasn't all that great. I mean, he couldn't even call me. I'm truly beginning to appreciate guys who aren't afraid to use the phone. In fact, #118 called me today to make a date for this weekend. If being able to use the phone is the measure of a man, then #111 may have looked like a man, but he was just a boy. Just like Veronica Sawyer realized J.D. was really a psychopath, #111 was really a boy who was too cool for a real relationship. It's true. You know what I want? Cool guys like him out of my life.
I've been thinking a lot about one of the last scenes in the movie Heathers, the 1989 black-comedy classic that my friends and I watched dozens of times in high school, memorizing every line. The scene goes like this: Veronica Sawyer (Winona Ryder) has a gun trained on Jason Dean, aka J.D., (Christian Slater) who's wielding a knife. They're both exhausted and bloodied in the school's boiler room, where J.D.'s planted a bomb after having killed a couple of co-eds.
They're discussing the sad state of teenager-hood and J.D. says, "What do you really want?"
"You know what I want, babe?" Veronica says. Then J.D. goes for her with the knife.
She shoots him, he collapses and she finishes her thought: "Cool guys like you out of my life."
This, I've decided, is what I want, too. Except I can't shoot #111 to get it. (And, when he doesn't die from the gunshot wound, I can't just hope that he's going to strap himself to a bomb and blow himself up. But I digress.)
Where #111 and I had left things was that we'd get lunch in a few weeks (i.e., right around now) to catch up in person. It was my idea--to be friends, to play nice, to (I secretly hoped) make him realize what a huge mistake he'd made. To tell you the truth, being in touch with him worked wonders. It got me through a suicidal Fall and then both Thanksgiving and Christmas in one piece. I'd been able to function because we had agreed to see each other again. It had given me hope.
And then two things happened. In my work life, even though I didn't want the job-I-didn't-want, I lost the job-I-didn't-want and, well, it felt really bad. My ego was thoroughly busted (to recap: I got dumped, accidentally pregnant and had now been let go from two jobs all within about three and a half months). I began to rethink things. #111 did, after all, dump me four days after I lost my previous job. And, based on the sounds of his four-year relationship as well as on what I'd experienced with him, it seemed as though he wanted something comfortable, something easy, where he could just move into his girlfriend's life and worry about nothing. Having to support a girlfriend emotionally and maybe even financially was probably not part of his plan. So it only made sense that when I got let go (the first time), he was out of there.
That's probably why--when we were emailing around Thanksgiving--it was extremely satisfying for me to share the only two good things about the job-I-didn't-want: the frozen yogurt machine and the fact that I had my own office. #111 was so competitive/jealous he never even asked what or where the job was. Or if I even liked it. He probably just assumed it was some great writing gig, which alone would be enough to make him feel bad about himself. So, having to sit across from him at lunch and tell him I'd gotten let go from yet another job did not sound like a good time. I could only imagine how smug he'd be.
And the second thing that happened? I'd actually started to move on. I'd gone on dates and had met a guy I liked.
I began to wrestle with the question: to lunch or not to lunch. I mean, why not let him believe I walked off into the sunset without him? I called Kevin one tormented night ("I can't tell if you're half asleep or bleeding out," he said). It wasn't the first time someone said what he said, but it was the first time I was ready to hear it: "I think you need to let [#111] go," he said. "He wasn't really all that great a guy."
He was right.
It reminded me of another time Kevin had some good advice. It was when I was trying to extricate myself from my feelings over My Crush:
"You need a new strategy," he said.
I asked him what that new strategy was.
"You need to move on quicker."
So simple but so brilliant. I needed a new strategy here, too. It had already been this long and I had already gotten this far and #111 and I hadn't even been together that long and there was already another guy on the horizon. And Kevin was right. #111 wasn't really that great a guy. He was kind of mean. And grumpy. And selfish.
I sat in my therapist's office and surrendered. "He wasn't really all that great," I repeated. He was, indeed, all the things above. But, most importantly, he couldn't open up. He couldn't look at himself. He couldn't be vulnerable. He showed me his vulnerable side once but that was after we'd already broken up and, as my shrink said, "he couldn't sustain it."
The last communication between us had come from him. It was the perfect way to leave things. He had the last word.
The door is still open if he wants to walk through it. But from what I know of him, he won't. And, from my side, walking through the door might only serve to get my hopes up. Or worse, if I reach out to him and he doesn't want to see me, that would only open things back up in the worst way. I've come too far right now to risk either of those things.
He really wasn't all that great. I mean, he couldn't even call me. I'm truly beginning to appreciate guys who aren't afraid to use the phone. In fact, #118 called me today to make a date for this weekend. If being able to use the phone is the measure of a man, then #111 may have looked like a man, but he was just a boy. Just like Veronica Sawyer realized J.D. was really a psychopath, #111 was really a boy who was too cool for a real relationship. It's true. You know what I want? Cool guys like him out of my life.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #118: He's Got Wheels
See The Five-Year Time Warp for the background on this one.
Pre-Date: #118 Facebook-messaged me on a Wednesday and we settled on Thursday for our date. He seemed iffy on the planning and I began to wonder if he was a little clueless about dating. It made me miss #111, who was an excellent dater. I shared my concern with Kevin and he said, "Well, [#111] may have been a great dater but he was a shitty boyfriend, so I hope this guy is the worst fucking dater ever because that probably means he'd be the sweetest boyfriend in the world." He had a point.
First Date: I slyly avoided a potentially awkward Black Swan date (a "psychosexual thriller" for a first date? not so much) and opted for dinner. It turned out I was wrong about his dating abilities. He called me the day of the date to let me know what he had in mind. He'd chosen a restaurant in the West Village and said he'd pick me up. At first I thought that meant he'd take the subway over from Brooklyn and come get me, which impressed me. And then I realized that he meant he was going to pick me up in his car, which impressed me even more.
He called before he left to say he'd call when he got to my place. And then he called when he got stuck on the bridge to say he was stuck on the bridge and would be late. And then he called me from downstairs to say he had arrived. I went outside and, when I couldn't get over the snowbank and started to walk ahead on the sidewalk, he followed me in his truck, stopping when he saw I'd found a place to walk through. It's the little things like that that make a difference. When I got in the front seat, I said, "I was thinking, 'I bet he has a truck.'" I gave him a kiss on the cheek and a sidelong hug across the front seat, which he held onto extra long, and told him it was good to see him. And it was good to see him. No one was more surprised than I was.
I wish I had a more clever way of putting it, but driving across town in the front seat of his truck felt, well, really good. And, as we talked, each time I glanced at him from the passenger seat, seeing him in his black knit hat and scarf, which emphasized a pretty attractive profile, I thought ever more emphatically, "He's cute!" We found a parking spot in the West Village about a block from the restaurant and...
[OK, I've been resisting comparing him to #111, but I can resist no longer... It took #111 more than a month into our dating for him to have the courage to even call me on the phone and here #118 had called me four times before our first date. And #111 couldn't even figure out how to rent a car let alone figure out how to own one, drive it across town to pick me up and then find a parking space without freaking out or without acting like it was somehow my fault that he was freaking out...]
Anyway, why hadn't I seen how cute #118 was five years ago? (Oh, wait, I know. Probably because I was still experiencing the horror of being crushed by #88 and couldn't see the forest, the trees or anything remotely rustic, which, judging from the fact that #118 has a truck and an assortment of thermoses on the dashboard, he is.)
We got out of the truck and walked to the restaurant and my Seinfeldian critic kicked in: He was of smallish stature. (Which, I told my inner critic, was fine.) We sat down and I could tell that well, he's a little different ... socially. A little awkward ... maybe. In a friendly way ... certainly.... Certainly not asocial or anything... (Which, I told my inner critic, was fine.)
It turned out he'd worked at the restaurant 20 years before and two people who were there then were there now, so he said hello. One of them, our waiter, who was a bit balding on top, asked him if he still had hair and he took his hat off and shoved it around, leaving it a bit lopsided, showing that he was clearly not vain in any way. (Which was fine...And, not only was it fine, I reminded myself, but it was completely the opposite of #111, who was extremely concerned about how he looked to others.)
At dinner, we talked so much that every time we'd start on something (books, work history, being the middle child) we'd veer off into tangents, so, now, as I sit here writing this, I'm thinking of all the unfinished threads of conversation. The food was good and, obviously, the conversation was good. At about the third hour, as I started to feel tired, he said something like, "So, what do you think?" A little awkward, but I knew what he was getting at and admitted I was getting tired. He said he was, too, and said he'd get the check. I took out my wallet and he shooed it away.
When we got back to his truck, he opened my door for me--and then closed it for me. And then drove me home, asking me when we got to my building if I wanted to see Black Swan, saying, "Not Saturday because you're going dancing, but maybe SundayMondayorTuesday..." He said it just like that, all smooshed together. His interest was adorable. "Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. Or Wednesday, Thursday or Friday," I teased. I said good-bye and went to give him a hug and kiss and, like any smart guy on a first date, he went for the lips. I let him succeed just a little. And when I pulled back after the hug, I could tell he wasn't so eager to let go (Which, it turned out, was totally fine. And no one was more surprised at that than I was.)
Signs of Hope: So many. Like I said, I was impressed from the start. I can't even remember the last time I was picked up for a date in a car. College? High school? There's just something about being driven around by a guy you like.
Red Flags: He exhibited some dissatisfaction with his work life and admitted to a mid-life crisis, which, in my experience, often indicates--but, of course, doesn't guarantee--that a guy is a runner.
Otherwise, as usual the red flag with most guys who appear available at first is me. There's a strong chance that I'm not going to like him on date #2--and probably date #4, too. I have to promise myself to hang in there until at least date #5--assuming, that is, that he wants to hang in there, too.
Diagnosis: He seems interested. I feel interested. Here's to date #5.
Pre-Date: #118 Facebook-messaged me on a Wednesday and we settled on Thursday for our date. He seemed iffy on the planning and I began to wonder if he was a little clueless about dating. It made me miss #111, who was an excellent dater. I shared my concern with Kevin and he said, "Well, [#111] may have been a great dater but he was a shitty boyfriend, so I hope this guy is the worst fucking dater ever because that probably means he'd be the sweetest boyfriend in the world." He had a point.
First Date: I slyly avoided a potentially awkward Black Swan date (a "psychosexual thriller" for a first date? not so much) and opted for dinner. It turned out I was wrong about his dating abilities. He called me the day of the date to let me know what he had in mind. He'd chosen a restaurant in the West Village and said he'd pick me up. At first I thought that meant he'd take the subway over from Brooklyn and come get me, which impressed me. And then I realized that he meant he was going to pick me up in his car, which impressed me even more.
He called before he left to say he'd call when he got to my place. And then he called when he got stuck on the bridge to say he was stuck on the bridge and would be late. And then he called me from downstairs to say he had arrived. I went outside and, when I couldn't get over the snowbank and started to walk ahead on the sidewalk, he followed me in his truck, stopping when he saw I'd found a place to walk through. It's the little things like that that make a difference. When I got in the front seat, I said, "I was thinking, 'I bet he has a truck.'" I gave him a kiss on the cheek and a sidelong hug across the front seat, which he held onto extra long, and told him it was good to see him. And it was good to see him. No one was more surprised than I was.
I wish I had a more clever way of putting it, but driving across town in the front seat of his truck felt, well, really good. And, as we talked, each time I glanced at him from the passenger seat, seeing him in his black knit hat and scarf, which emphasized a pretty attractive profile, I thought ever more emphatically, "He's cute!" We found a parking spot in the West Village about a block from the restaurant and...
[OK, I've been resisting comparing him to #111, but I can resist no longer... It took #111 more than a month into our dating for him to have the courage to even call me on the phone and here #118 had called me four times before our first date. And #111 couldn't even figure out how to rent a car let alone figure out how to own one, drive it across town to pick me up and then find a parking space without freaking out or without acting like it was somehow my fault that he was freaking out...]
Anyway, why hadn't I seen how cute #118 was five years ago? (Oh, wait, I know. Probably because I was still experiencing the horror of being crushed by #88 and couldn't see the forest, the trees or anything remotely rustic, which, judging from the fact that #118 has a truck and an assortment of thermoses on the dashboard, he is.)
We got out of the truck and walked to the restaurant and my Seinfeldian critic kicked in: He was of smallish stature. (Which, I told my inner critic, was fine.) We sat down and I could tell that well, he's a little different ... socially. A little awkward ... maybe. In a friendly way ... certainly.... Certainly not asocial or anything... (Which, I told my inner critic, was fine.)
It turned out he'd worked at the restaurant 20 years before and two people who were there then were there now, so he said hello. One of them, our waiter, who was a bit balding on top, asked him if he still had hair and he took his hat off and shoved it around, leaving it a bit lopsided, showing that he was clearly not vain in any way. (Which was fine...And, not only was it fine, I reminded myself, but it was completely the opposite of #111, who was extremely concerned about how he looked to others.)
At dinner, we talked so much that every time we'd start on something (books, work history, being the middle child) we'd veer off into tangents, so, now, as I sit here writing this, I'm thinking of all the unfinished threads of conversation. The food was good and, obviously, the conversation was good. At about the third hour, as I started to feel tired, he said something like, "So, what do you think?" A little awkward, but I knew what he was getting at and admitted I was getting tired. He said he was, too, and said he'd get the check. I took out my wallet and he shooed it away.
When we got back to his truck, he opened my door for me--and then closed it for me. And then drove me home, asking me when we got to my building if I wanted to see Black Swan, saying, "Not Saturday because you're going dancing, but maybe SundayMondayorTuesday..." He said it just like that, all smooshed together. His interest was adorable. "Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. Or Wednesday, Thursday or Friday," I teased. I said good-bye and went to give him a hug and kiss and, like any smart guy on a first date, he went for the lips. I let him succeed just a little. And when I pulled back after the hug, I could tell he wasn't so eager to let go (Which, it turned out, was totally fine. And no one was more surprised at that than I was.)
Signs of Hope: So many. Like I said, I was impressed from the start. I can't even remember the last time I was picked up for a date in a car. College? High school? There's just something about being driven around by a guy you like.
Red Flags: He exhibited some dissatisfaction with his work life and admitted to a mid-life crisis, which, in my experience, often indicates--but, of course, doesn't guarantee--that a guy is a runner.
Otherwise, as usual the red flag with most guys who appear available at first is me. There's a strong chance that I'm not going to like him on date #2--and probably date #4, too. I have to promise myself to hang in there until at least date #5--assuming, that is, that he wants to hang in there, too.
Diagnosis: He seems interested. I feel interested. Here's to date #5.
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