Mr. Unavailable #133: The Telltale Garb

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.