Vital Stats: 5’10” or 11”. 38. Book editor. Brown hair with peppered bits of gray. Some hair product. Like Madonna, a space between his two front teeth.
Aesthetic: The short-sleeved T-shirt over long-sleeved T-shirt look
Demeanor: Expressive, talkative, used a lot of hand motions
I’d been moving along with no love interest for a few weeks and was starting to miss, I dunno, drama? Male attention? Other than one prospect Zoe raised—and I quote, “He’s missing a finger and he’s only 5’8”, but I think he’s great”—the horizon was looking a little empty.
Just to see who was out there and maybe get the juices flowing again, I went back onto OKCupid and put up a new profile. I didn’t feel like going to all the trouble of writing something, so I tossed up two photos and said everything else was “under construction.” And I made myself 32. I meant to make myself 33, but I somehow miscalculated. At any rate, I became seven years my junior. I was tired of getting men in their 50s and, like I said, this was to get the juices flowing again.
In just a few days, I had about as many messages as I would have had I spent hours on a profile. The guys writing to me were age-appropriate (late 30s, early 40s), too. But I only responded to the ones who A. Didn’t sound insane. B. Were over 36 and C. Said they were looking for women at or beyond the age of 39, which was me.
One day, a message came in from a book editor in the New York area that said, “Um, I like your hair?”
I wrote back that liking someone’s hair was a very good start. I told him that I’d tell him whatever he wanted to know.
After about the fifth message exchange, which, for me, is one too many, I just wanted him to ask me out. I replied saying, “Yes, I am from Boston and do live in the East Village. So, have I passed the [#133] test? What do you think? Want to ask me out?” Something about having a profile that was completely devoid of content made me bold.
The next message I got from him began, “Tara, would you go out on a date with me?”
I was touched that he was game. We made plans to meet at Swift, a bar on East 4th St., on a Wednesday. Because he’d played along so nicely despite the complete lack of information in my profile, I told him that, to make it up to him, I’d dress up and be extra nice. He wrote back that if I dressed up, I could just be regular nice.
As I walked toward the bar, I prepared myself for the worst—that he’d look nothing like his photos or act really dorky and book-editor-like in the worst way—like, chemistry books. Or, worse, philosophy.
I walked in and looked around. I saw a guy standing at the bar but wasn’t sure if it was him. He turned and looked at me and then looked away. I walked up to him and he turned again.
“[#133]?” I said.
“Tara,” he said. It was him.
We hugged awkwardly and then stood awkwardly in the middle of the place talking for a few more awkward minutes as he awkwardly held a beer. It was looking like he wasn’t going to be the one to shift the conversation to, “Would you like a drink?” or “Shall we grab a table?” So I did it.
“So should we sit somewhere?” I said.
“Oh, yeah, we can sit in the back,” he said.
At a table in back, I ordered a drink from the waitress and sized him up. He was cute—somewhere in the middle of the cute range I’d estimated for him. The range went from kind-of-hot, muscley attitude guy all the way to awkward, totally nerdy oldish-looking philosophy book editor. Something about him seemed younger than 38. Maybe it was the fact that we spent a great deal of time swapping favorite Simpsons episodes. Or maybe it was his long-sleeved-T-shirt-over-short-sleeved-T-shirt look, a look that was so youthful in its appearance that it was like a telltale garb, haunting me that I’d lied about my age.
I also noticed he was talking—a lot. Maybe he was just nervous. From his chatter, I quickly discerned that he was not so much a “book editor” but a “copyeditor” and “proofreader.” They’re similar, but they’re also very different.
After two and a half hours of talking, he still didn’t even know my last name. I was actually glad that he was doing so much talking. Whenever I did any, I was careful (paranoid, really) about not matching dates to events, as in, “I did a junior-year abroad in 1992." Things like that. But the time had passed quickly—so quickly that I’d completely missed Elliott’s band’s set down the street. I told #133 that I had to go.
Outside Swift, we stood in front of each other. I noticed that he was taller than I’d estimated. To look at him, you’d think he was 5’8”, but he was taller than me even in heels. Standing in front of him, I bounced up and down on my toes and then realized I was holding my umbrella in front of me, creating a first-kiss fence. I dropped my arms and he said, “This was fun. We should do this again sometime.”
“Definitely,” I said.
And then he moved in for a kiss. On the lips. Which he got. Just a quick peck. Along with a hug. Because I wasn’t so gonzo about him, I wasn’t expecting much from our little kiss, but his lips were…surprisingly…nice.
When I walked into the bar where Elliott had just finished playing, he was putting his guitar away and asked how the date was. “I’m so tired of cool guys—and he’s so not cool,” I said. It was relief talking. “I had fun and he’s really nice. I don’t see it going anywhere, but he’s dateable.” And, thankfully, so not cool.
Signs of Hope: We had so much to talk about that we barely covered the first-date basics, like my last name.
Red Flags: He talked and gesticulated a lot, which could get annoying. And he’s a copyeditor. I wonder if he’d be enough for me. Maybe I’m really looking for someone a bit more ambitious.
Turning Point: The kiss. As quick as it was, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite as nice as it was.
Diagnosis: For him: He may very well be available.
For me: I’m not feeling as available as maybe I should be, but maybe, for once, that’s a good thing.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #98: Rejection=Flattery
See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn, The Calm Before the Storm and Fight Club for the background on this one.
The morning after my fight with #98, I called Zoe and Eva and conferenced everyone in to tell them what happened.
“I told you he wanted to know,” Zoe said.
“Yeah, as he was running his hand up and down my arm, I took a mental note that this was definitely more than a 'friends' thing,” I said.
“Do you like him?” Eva asked.
I thought about how I didn’t slap him or spit in his face. “I guess I do,” I said. “I was going to text him this: ‘Want to make up or make out?’”
They agreed that was good and I hit send.
When he responded half an hour later, the three of us were, of course, still on the phone dreamily theorizing about what could happen:
"Maybe I should change my plans for the day," I said, mentally rearranging the time slots I had for going to the gym and doing errands.
"Maybe he's your next boyfriend," Eva said.
"You could be over to his place for a shag in five minutes," Zoe said. Well, two of us were being dreamy, anyway.
His response? #98: peace
“What does that mean?” Zoe demanded.
“Yeah, he’s avoiding being direct,” Elvira said.
“You should text him and demand to know what that was all about last night. He was coming onto you,” Zoe said.
“Well, or maybe approach it more in a way of curiosity.”
Thirty minutes later, we concocted a strategically curious text.
Me: Are we sending each other mixed messages? I feel like it’s because there’s chemistry between us, but what do you think?
#98: how do I know
Outrage came from all corners of the conference call except mine. I just laughed. That was pretty much what I was expecting.
“He really doesn’t want to own up to it,” Eva said.
“Wow, what’s wrong with these men?” Zoe said.
“Well, that’s my answer,” I said. “He’s not capable. I know that he likes me, so it has nothing to do with me. He’s just not able to own up to what he wants. I feel sorry for him.”
And I did. But that was not the last from #98. Almost a month later, I was on a second date with #134 (he’s up next) when #98 texted me.
#98: I need help
Me: Are you injured?
#98: Yes
Me: Really? How? Is it urgent?
#98: Very
Me: Really? Should you be calling 911? I’ll be home in a couple of hours.
#98: no worryes I just felt lonely and wanted hang out
Something in him had stirred. Maybe he was on the verge of admitting something. He needed help and maybe he was about to ask for it. But he still couldn’t do it. And that wasn’t enough for me.
Signs of Hope: Miraculously, I didn’t take what #98 did as rejection. In fact, I didn’t take it personally at all. If anything, it's flattery.
Red Flags: #98 almost broke the surface twice. Key word: almost.
Turning Point: When he texted, “how do I know.” I thought something like that would crush me. Instead, it freed me.
Diagnosis: For him: Unavailable is as unavailable does.
For me: I've been released from any kind of grip #98 had on me.
The morning after my fight with #98, I called Zoe and Eva and conferenced everyone in to tell them what happened.
“I told you he wanted to know,” Zoe said.
“Yeah, as he was running his hand up and down my arm, I took a mental note that this was definitely more than a 'friends' thing,” I said.
“Do you like him?” Eva asked.
I thought about how I didn’t slap him or spit in his face. “I guess I do,” I said. “I was going to text him this: ‘Want to make up or make out?’”
They agreed that was good and I hit send.
When he responded half an hour later, the three of us were, of course, still on the phone dreamily theorizing about what could happen:
"Maybe I should change my plans for the day," I said, mentally rearranging the time slots I had for going to the gym and doing errands.
"Maybe he's your next boyfriend," Eva said.
"You could be over to his place for a shag in five minutes," Zoe said. Well, two of us were being dreamy, anyway.
His response? #98: peace
“What does that mean?” Zoe demanded.
“Yeah, he’s avoiding being direct,” Elvira said.
“You should text him and demand to know what that was all about last night. He was coming onto you,” Zoe said.
“Well, or maybe approach it more in a way of curiosity.”
Thirty minutes later, we concocted a strategically curious text.
Me: Are we sending each other mixed messages? I feel like it’s because there’s chemistry between us, but what do you think?
#98: how do I know
Outrage came from all corners of the conference call except mine. I just laughed. That was pretty much what I was expecting.
“He really doesn’t want to own up to it,” Eva said.
“Wow, what’s wrong with these men?” Zoe said.
“Well, that’s my answer,” I said. “He’s not capable. I know that he likes me, so it has nothing to do with me. He’s just not able to own up to what he wants. I feel sorry for him.”
And I did. But that was not the last from #98. Almost a month later, I was on a second date with #134 (he’s up next) when #98 texted me.
#98: I need help
Me: Are you injured?
#98: Yes
Me: Really? How? Is it urgent?
#98: Very
Me: Really? Should you be calling 911? I’ll be home in a couple of hours.
#98: no worryes I just felt lonely and wanted hang out
Something in him had stirred. Maybe he was on the verge of admitting something. He needed help and maybe he was about to ask for it. But he still couldn’t do it. And that wasn’t enough for me.
Signs of Hope: Miraculously, I didn’t take what #98 did as rejection. In fact, I didn’t take it personally at all. If anything, it's flattery.
Red Flags: #98 almost broke the surface twice. Key word: almost.
Turning Point: When he texted, “how do I know.” I thought something like that would crush me. Instead, it freed me.
Diagnosis: For him: Unavailable is as unavailable does.
For me: I've been released from any kind of grip #98 had on me.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #98: Fight Club
See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn and The Calm Before the Storm for the background on this one.
The weekend after the hurricane, Zoe found an apartment and moved out. You could say two hurricanes had passed through—Hurricane Irene and the hurricane created by one sofa-occupying, drama-loving Brit. Because Zoe had finally given up on finding the perfect place, she was able to quickly take a loft share in Williamsburg. There was a strange calm in my apartment. A quiet, uncluttered and unnerving calm. Was this just the eye of the storm? I called #98.
“I’m antsy,” I said.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee.”
It was a hot, humid September Sunday—gray, very post-hurricane. I was wearing my house-outfit: a pink Salvation Army tennis skirt and a T-shirt. We met in front of The Bean. I was restless.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I said.
“You want to go to 9th street espresso?” he said. “They have excellent coffee. Best coffee in the city.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
There's one other facet of my relationship with #98 that I forgot to mention. After we reconnected in a friendly way the previous winter, an odd dynamic had developed. When we’d run into each other, he’d get me to reveal some recent vulnerability. At first he would listen, but, as the conversation wore on, he’d begin telling me that whatever it was was some kind of problem and, because it was mine, I was to blame. Then I’d get angry and walk away. Put simply: he’d pick a fight. The pattern repeated itself several times. But, this summer, there was none of that. There was support, compassion, mutually expressed vulnerability. It was like we were becoming friends.
As we walked deeper into the East Village, I told him how I felt like I was in the eye of the storm. “It’s a big change,” he said. “She’s been staying with you how long?”
“Three months.”
“Three months is enough time to meet someone, get pregnant and breakup,” he said. That, I knew.
We reached the quiet, spacious coffee bar on 9th Street. He bought two lattes and let me choose which one I wanted and where we were going to sit. We took up two stools by the window and somehow got on the topic of ghosts.
“I have a ghost—or had a ghost,” I said.
“Tell me your ghost stories, mama,” he said. I told him my ghost stories. He nodded—believing me— and then told me some of his own ghost stories. After about an hour, he was late to meet a friend, so we walked partway back to our street and then parted ways on 5th St. and 2nd Ave.
The next night, he texted me: Can I take you out for sushi dinner?
At the sushi place up 1st Avenue, I perused the menu.
“Should I get the avocado roll or the cucumber roll? I asked,”
“Sweetie, you get whatever you want,” he said.
I looked at him. He smiled, silently urging me to order everything I could possibly want. His gaze lingered as if I were rolled up in nori and rice, too.
Two days later, it was my birthday. There were six of us out to dinner at Peels on Bleecker and Bowery, including #98. He sat across the wide table next to Zoe. He leaned in to her, telling her jokes. She laughed and played with her hair. To the untrained eye, it would have looked like they were flirting. Jealousy stirred. It was MY birthday; he should be joking with ME.
Before dessert, I switched sides to, as I said, mingle. Everyone sang me happy birthday and then he walked me home and…said good-night.
Maybe I was after something, maybe I was bored or maybe I was just treating him like a friend, but two days later, I called him to thank him for coming to my birthday.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee,” he said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When I walked to the corner, he was sitting on a bench.
“Sit down,” he said sweetly, patting the bench.
Something felt different. Were we experiencing low barometric pressure? Was it about to rain? Was a storm coming? Did #98 just brushed my hair behind my shoulder and run the backs of his fingers across my cheek and down my arm? Is #98 staring into my eyes? Did #98 just put his arm around me and pull me closer, encouraging me to rest my head on his shoulder?
This was more than friendly. I sat there, too stunned to react. I didn’t exactly hate it, so maybe I liked it. I decided that until I sussed out what to do, I would—despite my excess sweat and flushed face—try to act as normal as I possibly could.
We veered nervoulsy from topic to topic and somehow screeched to a halt on the doorstep of marriage.
“Why do you want to get married?” he asked. That was a real question. He was looking for a real answer. This was weird. This whole thing was weird. He wasn’t being open about the fact that he was seriously coming onto me but he wanted me to be open about my thoughts on marriage? I couldn't do it.
“For company,” I said. It was kind of true. There was, of course, more to it than that. Or was there? He knew my answer was bullshit because about two minutes later I’d managed to steer the conversation away from marriage and onto something less perilous—the gym—when he picked a fight.
“You’re very selfish,” he said. “Very self-centered.” On a sidenote, he'd stopped going to the gym or exercising exactly because he thought it was so self-involved.
“Why do you always do this?” I said.
“Do what?” he said. “I’m just telling you how you are. It's good for you to know.”
“I have to go,” I said. I got up and walked back to my building and up to my apartment. But, when I got upstairs, I started laughing. I finally realized what his picking fights with me was really all about.
Signs of Hope: We hadn’t had a fight in months—before this one, anyway. And right before he picked a fight, he was definitely coming onto me.
Red Flags: The whole picking-a-fight thing.
Turning Point: When he picked our last fight.
Diagnosis: For him: The reason he kept picking fights with me was because he needed to keep me at a distance. So when I kept him at a distance with my half-assed answer, he realized he had to re-double his efforts.
For me: Whether or not he deserved it, I was afraid of being vulnerable with him. I gave him a half-assed answer when he asked why I wanted to get married. But my reasons for wanting to get married are much deeper than that. Or are they?
The weekend after the hurricane, Zoe found an apartment and moved out. You could say two hurricanes had passed through—Hurricane Irene and the hurricane created by one sofa-occupying, drama-loving Brit. Because Zoe had finally given up on finding the perfect place, she was able to quickly take a loft share in Williamsburg. There was a strange calm in my apartment. A quiet, uncluttered and unnerving calm. Was this just the eye of the storm? I called #98.
“I’m antsy,” I said.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee.”
It was a hot, humid September Sunday—gray, very post-hurricane. I was wearing my house-outfit: a pink Salvation Army tennis skirt and a T-shirt. We met in front of The Bean. I was restless.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I said.
“You want to go to 9th street espresso?” he said. “They have excellent coffee. Best coffee in the city.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
There's one other facet of my relationship with #98 that I forgot to mention. After we reconnected in a friendly way the previous winter, an odd dynamic had developed. When we’d run into each other, he’d get me to reveal some recent vulnerability. At first he would listen, but, as the conversation wore on, he’d begin telling me that whatever it was was some kind of problem and, because it was mine, I was to blame. Then I’d get angry and walk away. Put simply: he’d pick a fight. The pattern repeated itself several times. But, this summer, there was none of that. There was support, compassion, mutually expressed vulnerability. It was like we were becoming friends.
As we walked deeper into the East Village, I told him how I felt like I was in the eye of the storm. “It’s a big change,” he said. “She’s been staying with you how long?”
“Three months.”
“Three months is enough time to meet someone, get pregnant and breakup,” he said. That, I knew.
We reached the quiet, spacious coffee bar on 9th Street. He bought two lattes and let me choose which one I wanted and where we were going to sit. We took up two stools by the window and somehow got on the topic of ghosts.
“I have a ghost—or had a ghost,” I said.
“Tell me your ghost stories, mama,” he said. I told him my ghost stories. He nodded—believing me— and then told me some of his own ghost stories. After about an hour, he was late to meet a friend, so we walked partway back to our street and then parted ways on 5th St. and 2nd Ave.
The next night, he texted me: Can I take you out for sushi dinner?
At the sushi place up 1st Avenue, I perused the menu.
“Should I get the avocado roll or the cucumber roll? I asked,”
“Sweetie, you get whatever you want,” he said.
I looked at him. He smiled, silently urging me to order everything I could possibly want. His gaze lingered as if I were rolled up in nori and rice, too.
Two days later, it was my birthday. There were six of us out to dinner at Peels on Bleecker and Bowery, including #98. He sat across the wide table next to Zoe. He leaned in to her, telling her jokes. She laughed and played with her hair. To the untrained eye, it would have looked like they were flirting. Jealousy stirred. It was MY birthday; he should be joking with ME.
Before dessert, I switched sides to, as I said, mingle. Everyone sang me happy birthday and then he walked me home and…said good-night.
Maybe I was after something, maybe I was bored or maybe I was just treating him like a friend, but two days later, I called him to thank him for coming to my birthday.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee,” he said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When I walked to the corner, he was sitting on a bench.
“Sit down,” he said sweetly, patting the bench.
Something felt different. Were we experiencing low barometric pressure? Was it about to rain? Was a storm coming? Did #98 just brushed my hair behind my shoulder and run the backs of his fingers across my cheek and down my arm? Is #98 staring into my eyes? Did #98 just put his arm around me and pull me closer, encouraging me to rest my head on his shoulder?
This was more than friendly. I sat there, too stunned to react. I didn’t exactly hate it, so maybe I liked it. I decided that until I sussed out what to do, I would—despite my excess sweat and flushed face—try to act as normal as I possibly could.
We veered nervoulsy from topic to topic and somehow screeched to a halt on the doorstep of marriage.
“Why do you want to get married?” he asked. That was a real question. He was looking for a real answer. This was weird. This whole thing was weird. He wasn’t being open about the fact that he was seriously coming onto me but he wanted me to be open about my thoughts on marriage? I couldn't do it.
“For company,” I said. It was kind of true. There was, of course, more to it than that. Or was there? He knew my answer was bullshit because about two minutes later I’d managed to steer the conversation away from marriage and onto something less perilous—the gym—when he picked a fight.
“You’re very selfish,” he said. “Very self-centered.” On a sidenote, he'd stopped going to the gym or exercising exactly because he thought it was so self-involved.
“Why do you always do this?” I said.
“Do what?” he said. “I’m just telling you how you are. It's good for you to know.”
“I have to go,” I said. I got up and walked back to my building and up to my apartment. But, when I got upstairs, I started laughing. I finally realized what his picking fights with me was really all about.
Signs of Hope: We hadn’t had a fight in months—before this one, anyway. And right before he picked a fight, he was definitely coming onto me.
Red Flags: The whole picking-a-fight thing.
Turning Point: When he picked our last fight.
Diagnosis: For him: The reason he kept picking fights with me was because he needed to keep me at a distance. So when I kept him at a distance with my half-assed answer, he realized he had to re-double his efforts.
For me: Whether or not he deserved it, I was afraid of being vulnerable with him. I gave him a half-assed answer when he asked why I wanted to get married. But my reasons for wanting to get married are much deeper than that. Or are they?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)