Mr. Unavailable #178: Trigger Man-Boy

Vital Stats: 5’7”ish. Late 30ish/early 40ish. Aesthetic: Computer programmer with the ability to dress himself. Demeanor: Shy but cheerful. Unassertive but attentive.

Somewhere between the end of September and early December, something happened. A mental shift. A brighter outlook. Maybe even a glimmer of enlightenment. I was doing my thing. Working. Hanging out with friends. Generally feeling pretty content. Life was good. It was perfect as it was. Without a man.

Here’s what I knew: Waiting for a man to complete me was something out of a Disney movie. I’d been witnessing too many friends—past and present—living in a constant state of want. It was painful to see. And, clearly, a waste of energy.

I told Eva as much. “I think what you’re experiencing,” she said, “is called self-love.” Self-love. That elusive secret to a complete life. The unexpected armor against the unavailable. The holy grail of emotional evolution.

Eva had entered into a game of chase with a heavy-drinking bass-playing bartender who, bearing a resemblance to a bloated version of Kurt Cobain, I’d nicknamed Fat Kurt to remind her that she was not seeing things clearly. He bluntly told her he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, but still, she had hope. “I slept over at his place last night. Nothing happened, of course. We’re just friends.” She smiled big, meaning even she didn’t believe what she was about to say. “But he’ll grow to love me.” At least one of us was still willfully delusional.

As for me, I hate how they say you find people when you’re not looking, but, perhaps due to a lack of wont, I had two bachelors in the offing. I’d met #178 at a birthday dinner after Thanskgiving. A large group of us piled into a Mexican place in Greenpoint one night. Eva and I situated ourselves next to each other and then let others fill in around us. Across from her was her ex-boyfriend from more than a year and a half before. Since he was a rebound thrice-removed, he’d entered her friend zone. Across from me was a cute guy with a blue knit hat. I introduced myself. He did the same. “Hi, I’m [#178].”

He spoke to me with a magnetic, eager little smile. I found out his band had broken up a month before after a European tour, he’d recently moved to Park Slope and he’d started a job as a programmer a week before—at Google. In New York City, knowing people in bands that tour Europe is pretty hum-ho. But Google?

“Wow. Google. What’s that like?”

“It’s awesome,” he said. “The rumors are true. Chefs, 24-hour snacks, an espresso bar, people bring their dogs to work.” Halfway through dinner, Eva leaned in to me over her meal of flan and said, “I like the idea of you and [#178].” I liked the idea, too. He was the kind of guy who was easy to overlook. Shy, understated and kind of adorable…which begged a few questions.

The first question: “He looks really young,” I said.

“He’s older than he looks,” Eva said. “Trust me. And he’s single.”

Outside the restaurant, he positioned himself nearby and then walked with me, talking with me as a group of us headed for the train. When three of us got off at the Lorimer stop to switch trains, I hugged him. “Good night,” I smiled.

The next time I saw him, our interaction was consistently magnetic. He gravitated toward me, positioned himself across from me at dinner, maintained eye contact, joined me when I transitioned to the conversations happening on either side of us.

Eva, ever the ruffler, was sitting next to me. “Hey [#178], how old are you?”

“I’m 41,” he said, unruffled.

Eva turned and looked at me as if to say See?

When we went to say good-bye that night, we hugged and I said, “It was good to see you.”

“Yeah, it was fun to hang out,” he said.

I stood in front of him for a few extra available seconds as everyone else walked away, creating a space of opportunity if he wanted to, for example, ask for my number.

Which leads to the second question: Was he confident enough to ask for my number?

“Yeah, this was fun,” he said. He stood on the sidewalk with me beside Metropolitan Avenue looking puzzled.

The seconds ticked by. He did nothing.

“OK, good night. See you later,” I said.

“Yeah…yeah,” he said. He paused. Maybe he sensed that he was supposed to do something.

I turned and walked away.

Signs of Hope: He was the right age, with a good job and a capacity for being attentive.

Red Flags: He definitely didn’t have an itchy trigger finger.

Turning Point: When he didn’t pull the trigger despite the fact that I handed him the metaphorical gun and then stood there in front of him as a willing target.

Diagnosis: For him: Maybe he lacks the confidence to really show up for a relationship.

For me: Now that I’ve actually managed to cultivate a healthy degree of self-love, I’m looking for someone with the same.