Mr. Unavailable #143: The C Word

Vital Stats: 5’7.5”ish, 38, freelance architect and rock-climbing enthusiast. Aesthetic:  Urban casual with a whiff of outdoorish-ness. Demeanor: Deliberately carefree with a hint of self-consciousness.

What Happened: On Mother’s Day, out to dinner at Cookshop in Chelsea with Kevin and two married friends, we had just finished gawking at Will Ferrell at the next table over when one of the married friends, Alice, said to me, “Oh, we have someone we want to set you up with.”

“What about me?” Kevin asked.

“We don’t have anyone for you right now,” Harry, the other married friend, said.

The setup guy was a rock-climbing friend of theirs. A freelance architect, he’d gotten out of a five-year relationship six months before. Familiar with how my dating history diametrically opposed what I was looking for, Harry said, “He’s a long-term relationship guy.” They showed me a photo of him, a somewhat distant shot of a somewhat rumpled-looking guy.

“He’s looks cute?” I said.

Kevin turned to me to reiterate the more crucial element of Alice and Harry’s effort. “He’s a relationship guy,” he said.

About six weeks later, I got a nervous voicemail message from #143. “I’m a friend of Harry and Alice…They gave me your number…Thought I’d call to say hello…Give me a call when you can…Cheers, bye.” We played a few rounds of phone tag and finally caught each other on a Thursday night. We had the usual first-conversation conversation—what we did for work, where we lived, etc. I told him I thought it was cool he was an architect.

“Being an architect isn’t really very sexy,” he said.

“It seems sexy to me. You must have blueprints strewn around your apartment.”

“Yeah, I’m buried in blueprints,” he said. I hesitated, unsure if he was putting me on. “That was said with a sarcastic font,” he said. I laughed. “The real reason I like what I do is that I get to work for a few weeks and then travel for a few weeks. I mean, I just spent three weeks on a boat off of a remote Caribbean island.”

Now I was self-conscious, for the last two years I’d let my exotic-travel cred lapse. “Anyway, what’s your weekend looking like?” he asked.

We made plans for Sunday brunch at Saxon and Parole on the Bowery. “So, when we meet up, how will we spot each other?” he asked.

“Oh, you don’t know what I look like?”

“Nope, but I’ll send you a picture of me. Hold on….”

He took a self-photo and texted it to me. I got it a few seconds later and laughed. He’d taken it from above, so it was a good view of his head—longish, graying hair, big blue eyes and big nose. He’d actually composed the photo so it looked somehow modular—with a background slice of bright carpeting and an edge of a dark-colored coffee table—just what you’d expect from an architect.

“That’s a great shot,” I said, making no mention of his appearance. While I wasn’t immediately attracted, there was no reason he couldn’t grow on me. After all, he was a relationship guy with a stamp of approval. 

I found a photo of myself from a West Point tour I’d taken a few weeks earlier and sent it to him hoping it made me appear slightly more adventuresome. “Oh, you’re cute!” he said enthusiastically.

Sunday was sweltering. Despite the heat, I threw on a sundress and flip-flops and took a west-side walk with Eva, bringing a squirt gun with me so we could spray ourselves every now and then to keep cool. It was too hot to bother going home and freshening up with heels and makeup, so I met him in front of Saxon and Parole still in my flip-flops—and still carrying.

We hugged, went in and started chatting at the bar. Beads of sweat emerged from his forehead, rolled down his cheeks and leapt from his chin to the bar. He dabbed at his face with a napkin but the sweat persisted. I thought it was the heat until he said, “I’m sorry. I’m really nervous. This is my first blind date ever.”

Except for the squirt gun in my bag, I was totally disarmed. I reached over, touched his shoulder and said, “Aw, it’s OK. You’re doing great.”

We were seated at a table a few minutes later. “How have you avoided online dating?” I asked.

“I’ve been in relationships with people I’ve met in the real world. Long relationships,” he said. “Yes, I have the stink of commitment on me.”

I smiled. There it was. In all its triple-syllabic glory. Commitment. When the bill came, I reached for my purse. He shooed me away. “Don’t even think about it.” He paid and said, “Want to go to the Met? Let’s grab a cab.”

Not only did he use the C word and refuse to let me pay but he was about to spring for a cab to the Met. Now I was really hoping he would grow on me. Finding no free cabs, we hopped the subway uptown and continued our career discussion. He told me he’d had an interview recently to be the assistant to Ron Perlman’s private architect.

“It would have paid a fortune,” he said. “But I would have been in an office all the time and I’m kind of attached to my lifestyle.”

His sacrifice sounded so impressive, I assumed the job he’d turned down would have paid him an exorbitant salary, so I didn’t think it impertinent when I asked, “How much did it pay?”

He looked embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t want to tell you,” he said.

“Now I really want to know."

He hesitated and then said, “It would have paid $90,000.”

Surely, this was said with a sarcastic font. I hit him on the arm and said, “Shut up. How much would it have really paid?”

He looked at me, frowning. He was serious.

“Oh. Oh, well, yeah, that is a lot,” I said. “From the build-up I thought you were going to say it paid millions.”

It was too late. The unintentional belittling was done.

Signs of Hope: He has all the qualities of a gentleman.

Red Flags: I’m having trouble feeling attracted to him.

Turning Point: When I insulted his less-than-$90,000 income.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s a relationship guy, so he sounds pretty damned available.

For me: What's my problem? I’m not attracted to him and I just insulted him. I’m doing great in the availability department (that’s a sarcastic font).