Mr. Unavailable #145: Mr. Vocabulary

Vital Stats: 6’4”. 200+ lbs. Environmental construction salesman. Divorced with one child. Living in New Jersey. Aesthetic: Normal suburban guy-wear—cargo shorts, polo shirt. Demeanor: Normal enough. Nice enough.

What Happened: I must be in a phase where I think the right thing to do is to go for the safe guy, meaning someone I’m not terribly attracted to or can even imagine kissing—ever. It reminds me of the time I was in sixth grade and depressed. Not knowing that I was depressed but knowing that I was somehow “off” or “wrong,” I thought that, as a pseudo punishment-slash-betterment effort to “right” myself, I should only listen to classical music. It was like I was in a self-made dry town—no more booze, drugs or rock ‘n’ roll. I’d get home from school, put on classical music, lie in bed and feel…nothing.

#145 arrived with similar excitement. In his online profile, he seemed…nice. In his messages, he seemed…bland but nice (“Hi. We seem to have a lot in common. Would you like to talk?”). And in his photos, he looked kind of like a big, furry bear—but a nice one. He didn't inspire me, but maybe dating him would be the right thing to do.

Our email exchange was becoming dangerously close to my four-exchange quitting point, especially since his messages were growing increasingly longer, explaining the exact reasons and circumstances under which he was transitioning from construction to environmental building sales, how he ended up in New Jersey, blah, blah, blah.

He snatched things from the brink of extinction when, at the end of message #8, he asked if I wanted to meet for coffee. I replied, ignoring the two paragraphs preceding it that detailed his exact career trajectory, saying, “I’d love to get together for coffee. How about Saturday at 3:30?”

On Saturday afternoon, as I approached him in front of Colombe on Lafayette, my new default online date coffee place, I saw that he’d buzz-cut some of his beariness, revealing a cute face. After a series of physically disappointing mister unavailables (too scary, too tiny, too not attractive to me) in the month or two before, I thought—and in my real voice not my inner cheerleader voice—Oh, maybe I can do this.

He was big, bigger than what I’m usually attracted to, but he’d recently been divorced so maybe he’d put on some poundage in his distress and sadness. Maybe I was the girl who would bring him renewed happiness and inspired weight loss. He regaled me with stories of his old days in the East Village—the low rent he paid, the crazy parties they’d had—in the same building the restaurant Saxon and Parole now is, where rents probably now surpass the $5,000 mark. He was interesting, smart even.

He asked if he could walk me partway home. At the corner of Bowery and 4^th St., we stopped to part ways. “I’d love to get together again sometime,” he said.

“Yeah, that would be fun,” I said. I put out my arms to give him a hug and he moved in, his lips heading straight for mine. I turned my head. He got my cheek. We said a few more parting words and he leaned in again. I realized he was going to persist so I let him land one on my lips.

I didn’t like it. At all.

“It was not cool,” I told Kevin later at coffee. Kevin cringed, recognizing the male gaffe. “It doesn’t sound like he was reading you right. But not just that, he just generally needs to play it a little cooler.”

#145 said he’d call me the next day about a date for later in the week. And he did. We arranged to meet at the Noho Star on Thursday. Shallow me was excited to have a dinner date with someone tall, so I got dressed up and put on heels. Waiting for him at the restaurant, I was nervous. My original interest in him had been predicated on past disappointments, so I knew that a lot would be decided the moment he walked through the door. Then he walked through the door. I felt nothing.

I just had to make it through dinner, but everything he said annoyed me.

“I’m the guy who uses big words. Some people think it’s pretentious but I just have a copious vocabulary,” he said. I internally rolled my eyes.

He also revealed that he hadn’t gained weight as a result of his marriage falling apart. “I’ve always been big,” he said proudly, comparing himself to his regular-sized brothers, who I then began to wonder about. My legitimate opportunity for an out, though, came when he said he moved out of the house in February.

“So, you’re not divorced yet?”

“No, we’re separated about five months…but it was over a long time ago.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so recent,” I said, hoping he’d remember the faint tone of disappointment when I declined his next date request.

We finished dinner and he walked me home. This time, standing in front of my apartment building, I knew there was no way I was going to let him sneak a kiss on the lips again. He must have sensed that I was drifting away from him because stood there throwing out ideas for future dates as if throwing out little life preservers. I felt too bad to let him drown right there on my doorstep, so I quietly acted as if I was taking his ideas under advisement, “Oh, that sounds like it could be fun.”

He called me a few days later and I let it go to voicemail. He wanted to see what I was up to that weekend. After gathering advice from a few male friends of mine, I didn’t call him back. “He’ll get the message,” one said. 

But #145 persisted. He texted a few days after that to see if I wanted to get together. I was in the car with Nora and Eva on the way to a Williamsburg party when I got his text. Unsure of what kind of response to compose—I didn’t want to be too harsh or too explain-y or too apologetic (I mean, it’s not like I was breaking his heart)—the four of us parsed together a reply: “Hey! Thank you for your message. It was nice meeting you but I don’t think we are a match. Take care.”

Despite the copious vocabulary at his disposal, he didn’t respond.

Signs of Hope: I really meant it when I thought, Maybe I can do this. It wasn’t just my internal cheerleader talking.

Red Flags: At no point did I even vaguely consider making out with him.

Turning Point: When he walked into the Noho Star. No matter how much I try to talk myself into liking a guy, if it’s not there, it’s just not there.

Diagnosis: For him: My gut says he was less available, or “safe,” than he maybe seemed and was really casting about for something with any woman other than his ex-wife-to-be.
For me: Maybe the lesson in all this is: No more safe guys?