Mr. Unavailable #133: The Lukewarm Fuzzies

See The Telltale Garb and The Sit-Com Setup for the background on this one.

#133 texted me the day after our dessert and overdose-trivia date.

#133: Thx 4 the good times & trivia. B4 it gets too cold lets go 4 a ride.

Six days later, he texted with an apology for not getting back to me but still offered up no plans.

On the seventh day, I took matters into my own hands and texted him.

Me: Not to be pushy or anything, Mr. [#133], but please feel free to ask me on another date anytime. My dance card is starting to fill up. Maybe since we aren’t going riding, I can dress up again. Xo. I have this red dress I’ve been meaning to wear…

He texted back a few minutes later.

#133: Would you say it’s a Friday Night Dress?

Me: Actually, I would!

#133: Great, then I can see it tomoro! Care to see some music?

The next night, I met up with him at La Lanterna in the Village. When I walked up to him, I stumbled and he caught me. “I’ve got you,” he said. It wasn’t so much that I liked that HE caught me but that I was being caught, if that makes any sense.

I saw him admiring my red dress and then I tried to admire him back. He was dressed nicely—in a blazer, jeans and a button-down. But through the button-down, I could see a furry bib-shaped animal living just below his neckline.

“He really needs an undershirt,” I thought, hoping the thought wasn’t registering on my face.

The maître d. walked up. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. “Oh, for such a lovely woman, only the best table.” He led us to the table in the back garden by the fountain, we ordered, we talked, I made a conscious “I’m interested” adjustment of my unconscious “I’m not all that interested” body language.

Despite my initial reservations, I started having a nice time. Other than being hirsute, the only other thing that bothered me about him was that he used the word “cheap” a lot, as in, “I really like [blank]. It’s cheap!” Every time he said it, I felt like I was being jabbed by a butter knife. It wasn’t exactly painful but it was annoying.

We wound up pretty caught up in conversation, so we missed the jazz band’s first set in the basement bar.

“Should we go for the second set?” he said. It’s too bad we missed the first set.”

He seemed legitimately bummed. He picked up the check—making no mention of me buying the drinks this time—and we went to the basement. “Are you here for the band?” the waitress asked. “Maybe,” he said. “We might only stay for a drink.”

They gave us the romantic booth in the corner by the fire and, as we ordered drinks, he said, “Do you want to stay? If we get drinks, I’m going to have to pay the cover anyway. Well, we might as well stay if I’m going to have to pay the cover anyway.”

The question left me with mixed feelings. On one hand, he clearly understood he was supposed to be paying the cover. That was good. On the other hand, he wanted to avoid paying the cover if at all possible. That was not so good. My like for him remained just out of reach.

In our romantic nook, he awkwardly put his arm around me.

I mechanically leaned into him.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.

I thought for a moment.

“I really don’t care what you’re doing tomorrow, I just want to know if you’re free,” he said. That made me like him.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asked.

“That sounds like fun,” I said.

After he walked me to my place—and paid for the whole evening—he deserved a trip upstairs. We rolled around on my sofa for a while and—again—all I really wanted was to hug him. I think the nicest thing I said to him all night was, “You’re so warm.”

It got too late to send him home and he agreed to be a perfect gentleman—“I like taking things slow,” he said—so he stayed over. In the morning, things were cozy and chaste. He started talking about how he wanted to have kids one day.

“As intelligent people, it’s our duty to have kids,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

“Either you can be rich or you can have kids,” he said.

“Why can’t you have both?” I asked.

“There’s no time to argue,” he said. “Let’s make babies.”

He squeezed me and I giggled. It made me like him.

We took the train way out to his place in Ridgewood. It was far. I was amazed at how unconcerned I was with whether or not he liked me. With #111, it was constantly on my mind: Does he like me now? How about now? Why is he not acting like he likes me at this moment? Is something wrong? I wonder what’s wrong.

At #133’s place, I made myself at home. Lying on his bed as he got changed, I checked my email on my phone, texted a couple of people, snacked on some doughnuts I’d bought us.

On his motorcycle, we headed to nowhere in particular and ended up mostly on unattractive highways. When I tried to talk to him through my helmet, forgetting he couldn’t hear me, he said, “I can’t hear you.” Was he getting snippy with me? I’d been eating exhaust fumes most of the way and was all too aware of how easy it would be for us to tip over and die, so I was feeling a little snippy toward him, too. Eventually, we ended up in Connecticut at a pub ordering a sandwich. He was telling a story and using lots of hand motions. And then he stopped.

“You’re the only person I know who…you watch my hands when I talk,” he said. His tone walked the line between being critical and making an observation.

I seized the opportunity. “You know what I noticed that you do?” I said, circling my finger at him. “You use the word ‘cheap’ a lot.” I was walking the line, too.

His head lowered. “I just like deals,” he said.

“I know you do,” I said smiling, being nice, and wondering if we were having our first fight. “Are we having our first fight?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said.

For the most part, we seemed to get along. On the ride up, we already determined that we shared a sense of humor and had even come up with a word for it: sarcatious, a cross between sarcastic and facetious.

He drove me home—all the way back into Manhattan—which I was grateful for, so grateful I gave him a big, public good-bye kiss, which he seemed to like, and I walked away feeling warm—and fuzzy.

Signs of Hope: I’m giving myself permission to like him AND not like him and keep dating him.

Red Flags: WERE we getting snippy with each other?

Turning Point: When he drove me all the way back into Manhattan. That just made me like him.

Diagnosis: For him: Available for a 24-hour date, the first part of which was, unfortunately, at my request.
For me: He has a body. And it’s warm.