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.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #133: The Sit-Com Setup
See The Telltale Garb for the background on this one.
It was a week after my date with #133 and I was confused. I thought it had gone well. He seemed interested. I seemed interested. But I hadn’t heard from him. I went over to Williamsburg to help Zoe prep for a possible makeup job, but we mostly ended up watching movies and ordering delivery. After 24 hours in her apartment, we needed to get out. At a bar on Bedford, we began discussing boys.
“You don’t make it obvious enough that you’re interested,” she said. “When I’m on a first date, I take their hand and stroke it and look deeply into their eyes.”
“If I was a guy on a first date with you, I’d be pretty sure I was about to get laid,” I said.
Usually, when we begin discussing boys, we begin texting boys.
“Why don’t you text him and say, ‘Hey, stranger. So when’s our next date and snog?’”
I was up for an experiment. Channeling Zoe, I texted him exactly what she had said. Five hours later came the reply: “Hey Tara! U left the okc fold I noticed. im glad u wrote me. Next week let’s meet. Weds?”
It was Thursday. Next Wednesday would mark the two-week point from our first date.
“Ask him why so far away,” Zoe said as if he’d just put her off, not me.
I really didn’t care enough to ask, so the next day I wrote back, “Superfantastic.” But immediately after I sent it, I felt stupid. Was I chasing him? Was he playing hard to get?
Two hours later, I harnessed a little of the crazy in me and rescinded my acceptance. “Actually, I can’t make it after all. Sorry about that. Best of luck to you!”
“Just like that! Ok be well Tara.”
Normally, I’d just leave it at that. But I wanted to do things differently. I may not stroke his hand on our next date, but I could communicate better and explain why I was being fickle. I texted him.
Me: I kind of sensed you weren’t so interested cuz I didn’t hear from you. I was impulsive and texted you yesterday. And then I felt silly for texting you. Usually don’t go into long explanations but I think there’s been some confusion.
#133: I meant to call u but was busy & in jerz a lot. My only concern was thinking up a non drinking date, the lush that I am
Me: Wow, it’s like a situation comedy setup. OK, you can ask me out again. And I like getting my dates liquored up so I’m always up for drinking dates.
I didn’t hear back from him, so I assumed we were still on for Wednesday. And then Wednesday rolled around. There was no word from him. Once more, in the name of doing things differently, I communicated, texting him.
Me: Did I mess up again? Or maybe I had something on my face? Mustard?
#133: Lets go out & ill check 4 mustard.
Me: Phew! That was close. You might also want to check for falafel.
#133: ill run the full battery of tests (falafel, mustard, ranch dressing…). so where does a teetotler go on a date? a motorcycle ride? to a falafel stand?
Me: Cake and music somewhere?
#133: Better than tea & sympathy. 2nite work, 2moro friends bday. Saturday work 4 u? maybe we can take that ride
He was working tonight? But we had a date.
Me: You’re working tonight?
#133: I cud get away 2nite. theres always procrastination. wen r u free? soon enuf 4 a ride maybe? or just let us eat cake?
Me: We need a dimly lit bakery. 8ish? Procrastination is a very useful tool.
#133: Clinton st bakery 8pm.
At about 7:30, he got to the Lower East Side.
#133: Better b dimly lit. Helmet hair.
Me: Don’t worry. Everyone will be looking at me anyway.
#133: Look @ that girl w the helmet head guy!
When I walked up to him outside the restaurant, he was holding his motorcycle helmet. He looked so harmless, dorky and helmet-heady. He was so not cool. I was relieved all over again.
“It’s Tara the mysterious disappearing girl,” he said, giving me a kiss on the lips (still good!).
“Me? You disappeared,” I said.
“I was glad to hear from you. I wasn’t sure if I would.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Huh? Well, I don’t know.”
We sat down inside and ordered.
He got serious. “You know, I would have gotten in touch with you again even though I didn’t hear from you.”
“When?” I asked. Last week?
“No, sometime this week.”
“Did you get my text about the sit-com setup?”
“What text?”
“After you said you were trying to come up with a non-drinking date.”
“You didn’t text me after that, did you?”
“Yes, I did.” I said. I picked up my phone. “It was a funny one, too. I’ll read it to you.”
I read it to him. We shared an a-ha moment as we realized the true depth of the sit-com setup. He thought I'd disappeared...I thought he'd disappeared.
Dinner wound down decently except for the fact that he was a little rude to the waitstaff (“No, I’m not done yet.”) made dinner conditional (“I’ll get this if you buy me a drink at the next place) and used the word "cheap" quite a bit ("I like it because it's cheap."). Every time he said "cheap," it felt like he was stabbing me with his fork because I flinched every time. He also mentioned his "crazy" ex-girlfriend more than once.
We headed to Parkside Lounge on Houston and he partially redeemed himself by telling me entertaining backstories about different sayings (“Three sheets to the wind.”…”The hair of the dog that bit me.”), drawing pictures to illustrate them. It was cute, but I still felt intermittently annoyed. Things like this: I’d already gotten the first round of drinks, but when the second round arrived, #133 pretended not to notice they'd arrived, so I paid. I thought there would be some salvation when it turned out to be bar trivia night (I love trivia. Trivial Pursuit. Trivia night. Bring it.), but then he turned out to be excessively competitive. If I suggested an answer and he had one, too, he’d put down his.
During the height of my annoyance, I realized that my body language was terrible. I was facing the bar, not him. To seem a little more interested, I turned toward him. I was wearing my glasses when I turned and he looked at me and said, “Your eyes look really pretty through your glasses.” As far as compliments go, it was weak, but it counted.
Possibly the best part of the date was when we made it to the trivia finals. He was generous enough to let me represent our team and I joined the other reps at the front. It was a speed round where the head trivia guy said names of dead celebrities and the first one to call out the correct cause of death won. And if it was an overdose, you had to name the substance. Except for Gilda Radner, it was all overdoses, so for a solid five minutes, I got to jump up and down yelling, “Heroine! Cocaine! A speedball!”
#133 walked me home (bonus points) and, in front of my apartment, even though we kissed, I had the overwhelming desire to just hug him. It was the warm body syndrome. I simply wanted a warm body to hold; it didn’t really matter whose.
Signs of Hope: At least he paid for dinner. And he did compliment me.
Red Flags: He just annoyed me so much.
Turning Point: The hug at the end. Ah, a warm body.
Diagnosis: For him: His maturity level might be below my hopes and dreams, but, except for the two-week lag between dates, he seems like he might be available.
For me: I’m available for a couple of hugging sessions for sure.
It was a week after my date with #133 and I was confused. I thought it had gone well. He seemed interested. I seemed interested. But I hadn’t heard from him. I went over to Williamsburg to help Zoe prep for a possible makeup job, but we mostly ended up watching movies and ordering delivery. After 24 hours in her apartment, we needed to get out. At a bar on Bedford, we began discussing boys.
“You don’t make it obvious enough that you’re interested,” she said. “When I’m on a first date, I take their hand and stroke it and look deeply into their eyes.”
“If I was a guy on a first date with you, I’d be pretty sure I was about to get laid,” I said.
Usually, when we begin discussing boys, we begin texting boys.
“Why don’t you text him and say, ‘Hey, stranger. So when’s our next date and snog?’”
I was up for an experiment. Channeling Zoe, I texted him exactly what she had said. Five hours later came the reply: “Hey Tara! U left the okc fold I noticed. im glad u wrote me. Next week let’s meet. Weds?”
It was Thursday. Next Wednesday would mark the two-week point from our first date.
“Ask him why so far away,” Zoe said as if he’d just put her off, not me.
I really didn’t care enough to ask, so the next day I wrote back, “Superfantastic.” But immediately after I sent it, I felt stupid. Was I chasing him? Was he playing hard to get?
Two hours later, I harnessed a little of the crazy in me and rescinded my acceptance. “Actually, I can’t make it after all. Sorry about that. Best of luck to you!”
“Just like that! Ok be well Tara.”
Normally, I’d just leave it at that. But I wanted to do things differently. I may not stroke his hand on our next date, but I could communicate better and explain why I was being fickle. I texted him.
Me: I kind of sensed you weren’t so interested cuz I didn’t hear from you. I was impulsive and texted you yesterday. And then I felt silly for texting you. Usually don’t go into long explanations but I think there’s been some confusion.
#133: I meant to call u but was busy & in jerz a lot. My only concern was thinking up a non drinking date, the lush that I am
Me: Wow, it’s like a situation comedy setup. OK, you can ask me out again. And I like getting my dates liquored up so I’m always up for drinking dates.
I didn’t hear back from him, so I assumed we were still on for Wednesday. And then Wednesday rolled around. There was no word from him. Once more, in the name of doing things differently, I communicated, texting him.
Me: Did I mess up again? Or maybe I had something on my face? Mustard?
#133: Lets go out & ill check 4 mustard.
Me: Phew! That was close. You might also want to check for falafel.
#133: ill run the full battery of tests (falafel, mustard, ranch dressing…). so where does a teetotler go on a date? a motorcycle ride? to a falafel stand?
Me: Cake and music somewhere?
#133: Better than tea & sympathy. 2nite work, 2moro friends bday. Saturday work 4 u? maybe we can take that ride
He was working tonight? But we had a date.
Me: You’re working tonight?
#133: I cud get away 2nite. theres always procrastination. wen r u free? soon enuf 4 a ride maybe? or just let us eat cake?
Me: We need a dimly lit bakery. 8ish? Procrastination is a very useful tool.
#133: Clinton st bakery 8pm.
At about 7:30, he got to the Lower East Side.
#133: Better b dimly lit. Helmet hair.
Me: Don’t worry. Everyone will be looking at me anyway.
#133: Look @ that girl w the helmet head guy!
When I walked up to him outside the restaurant, he was holding his motorcycle helmet. He looked so harmless, dorky and helmet-heady. He was so not cool. I was relieved all over again.
“It’s Tara the mysterious disappearing girl,” he said, giving me a kiss on the lips (still good!).
“Me? You disappeared,” I said.
“I was glad to hear from you. I wasn’t sure if I would.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Huh? Well, I don’t know.”
We sat down inside and ordered.
He got serious. “You know, I would have gotten in touch with you again even though I didn’t hear from you.”
“When?” I asked. Last week?
“No, sometime this week.”
“Did you get my text about the sit-com setup?”
“What text?”
“After you said you were trying to come up with a non-drinking date.”
“You didn’t text me after that, did you?”
“Yes, I did.” I said. I picked up my phone. “It was a funny one, too. I’ll read it to you.”
I read it to him. We shared an a-ha moment as we realized the true depth of the sit-com setup. He thought I'd disappeared...I thought he'd disappeared.
Dinner wound down decently except for the fact that he was a little rude to the waitstaff (“No, I’m not done yet.”) made dinner conditional (“I’ll get this if you buy me a drink at the next place) and used the word "cheap" quite a bit ("I like it because it's cheap."). Every time he said "cheap," it felt like he was stabbing me with his fork because I flinched every time. He also mentioned his "crazy" ex-girlfriend more than once.
We headed to Parkside Lounge on Houston and he partially redeemed himself by telling me entertaining backstories about different sayings (“Three sheets to the wind.”…”The hair of the dog that bit me.”), drawing pictures to illustrate them. It was cute, but I still felt intermittently annoyed. Things like this: I’d already gotten the first round of drinks, but when the second round arrived, #133 pretended not to notice they'd arrived, so I paid. I thought there would be some salvation when it turned out to be bar trivia night (I love trivia. Trivial Pursuit. Trivia night. Bring it.), but then he turned out to be excessively competitive. If I suggested an answer and he had one, too, he’d put down his.
During the height of my annoyance, I realized that my body language was terrible. I was facing the bar, not him. To seem a little more interested, I turned toward him. I was wearing my glasses when I turned and he looked at me and said, “Your eyes look really pretty through your glasses.” As far as compliments go, it was weak, but it counted.
Possibly the best part of the date was when we made it to the trivia finals. He was generous enough to let me represent our team and I joined the other reps at the front. It was a speed round where the head trivia guy said names of dead celebrities and the first one to call out the correct cause of death won. And if it was an overdose, you had to name the substance. Except for Gilda Radner, it was all overdoses, so for a solid five minutes, I got to jump up and down yelling, “Heroine! Cocaine! A speedball!”
#133 walked me home (bonus points) and, in front of my apartment, even though we kissed, I had the overwhelming desire to just hug him. It was the warm body syndrome. I simply wanted a warm body to hold; it didn’t really matter whose.
Signs of Hope: At least he paid for dinner. And he did compliment me.
Red Flags: He just annoyed me so much.
Turning Point: The hug at the end. Ah, a warm body.
Diagnosis: For him: His maturity level might be below my hopes and dreams, but, except for the two-week lag between dates, he seems like he might be available.
For me: I’m available for a couple of hugging sessions for sure.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #98: Rejection=Flattery
See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn, The Calm Before the Storm and Fight Club for the background on this one.
The morning after my fight with #98, I called Zoe and Eva and conferenced everyone in to tell them what happened.
“I told you he wanted to know,” Zoe said.
“Yeah, as he was running his hand up and down my arm, I took a mental note that this was definitely more than a 'friends' thing,” I said.
“Do you like him?” Eva asked.
I thought about how I didn’t slap him or spit in his face. “I guess I do,” I said. “I was going to text him this: ‘Want to make up or make out?’”
They agreed that was good and I hit send.
When he responded half an hour later, the three of us were, of course, still on the phone dreamily theorizing about what could happen:
"Maybe I should change my plans for the day," I said, mentally rearranging the time slots I had for going to the gym and doing errands.
"Maybe he's your next boyfriend," Eva said.
"You could be over to his place for a shag in five minutes," Zoe said. Well, two of us were being dreamy, anyway.
His response? #98: peace
“What does that mean?” Zoe demanded.
“Yeah, he’s avoiding being direct,” Elvira said.
“You should text him and demand to know what that was all about last night. He was coming onto you,” Zoe said.
“Well, or maybe approach it more in a way of curiosity.”
Thirty minutes later, we concocted a strategically curious text.
Me: Are we sending each other mixed messages? I feel like it’s because there’s chemistry between us, but what do you think?
#98: how do I know
Outrage came from all corners of the conference call except mine. I just laughed. That was pretty much what I was expecting.
“He really doesn’t want to own up to it,” Eva said.
“Wow, what’s wrong with these men?” Zoe said.
“Well, that’s my answer,” I said. “He’s not capable. I know that he likes me, so it has nothing to do with me. He’s just not able to own up to what he wants. I feel sorry for him.”
And I did. But that was not the last from #98. Almost a month later, I was on a second date with #134 (he’s up next) when #98 texted me.
#98: I need help
Me: Are you injured?
#98: Yes
Me: Really? How? Is it urgent?
#98: Very
Me: Really? Should you be calling 911? I’ll be home in a couple of hours.
#98: no worryes I just felt lonely and wanted hang out
Something in him had stirred. Maybe he was on the verge of admitting something. He needed help and maybe he was about to ask for it. But he still couldn’t do it. And that wasn’t enough for me.
Signs of Hope: Miraculously, I didn’t take what #98 did as rejection. In fact, I didn’t take it personally at all. If anything, it's flattery.
Red Flags: #98 almost broke the surface twice. Key word: almost.
Turning Point: When he texted, “how do I know.” I thought something like that would crush me. Instead, it freed me.
Diagnosis: For him: Unavailable is as unavailable does.
For me: I've been released from any kind of grip #98 had on me.
The morning after my fight with #98, I called Zoe and Eva and conferenced everyone in to tell them what happened.
“I told you he wanted to know,” Zoe said.
“Yeah, as he was running his hand up and down my arm, I took a mental note that this was definitely more than a 'friends' thing,” I said.
“Do you like him?” Eva asked.
I thought about how I didn’t slap him or spit in his face. “I guess I do,” I said. “I was going to text him this: ‘Want to make up or make out?’”
They agreed that was good and I hit send.
When he responded half an hour later, the three of us were, of course, still on the phone dreamily theorizing about what could happen:
"Maybe I should change my plans for the day," I said, mentally rearranging the time slots I had for going to the gym and doing errands.
"Maybe he's your next boyfriend," Eva said.
"You could be over to his place for a shag in five minutes," Zoe said. Well, two of us were being dreamy, anyway.
His response? #98: peace
“What does that mean?” Zoe demanded.
“Yeah, he’s avoiding being direct,” Elvira said.
“You should text him and demand to know what that was all about last night. He was coming onto you,” Zoe said.
“Well, or maybe approach it more in a way of curiosity.”
Thirty minutes later, we concocted a strategically curious text.
Me: Are we sending each other mixed messages? I feel like it’s because there’s chemistry between us, but what do you think?
#98: how do I know
Outrage came from all corners of the conference call except mine. I just laughed. That was pretty much what I was expecting.
“He really doesn’t want to own up to it,” Eva said.
“Wow, what’s wrong with these men?” Zoe said.
“Well, that’s my answer,” I said. “He’s not capable. I know that he likes me, so it has nothing to do with me. He’s just not able to own up to what he wants. I feel sorry for him.”
And I did. But that was not the last from #98. Almost a month later, I was on a second date with #134 (he’s up next) when #98 texted me.
#98: I need help
Me: Are you injured?
#98: Yes
Me: Really? How? Is it urgent?
#98: Very
Me: Really? Should you be calling 911? I’ll be home in a couple of hours.
#98: no worryes I just felt lonely and wanted hang out
Something in him had stirred. Maybe he was on the verge of admitting something. He needed help and maybe he was about to ask for it. But he still couldn’t do it. And that wasn’t enough for me.
Signs of Hope: Miraculously, I didn’t take what #98 did as rejection. In fact, I didn’t take it personally at all. If anything, it's flattery.
Red Flags: #98 almost broke the surface twice. Key word: almost.
Turning Point: When he texted, “how do I know.” I thought something like that would crush me. Instead, it freed me.
Diagnosis: For him: Unavailable is as unavailable does.
For me: I've been released from any kind of grip #98 had on me.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #98: Fight Club
See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn and The Calm Before the Storm for the background on this one.
The weekend after the hurricane, Zoe found an apartment and moved out. You could say two hurricanes had passed through—Hurricane Irene and the hurricane created by one sofa-occupying, drama-loving Brit. Because Zoe had finally given up on finding the perfect place, she was able to quickly take a loft share in Williamsburg. There was a strange calm in my apartment. A quiet, uncluttered and unnerving calm. Was this just the eye of the storm? I called #98.
“I’m antsy,” I said.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee.”
It was a hot, humid September Sunday—gray, very post-hurricane. I was wearing my house-outfit: a pink Salvation Army tennis skirt and a T-shirt. We met in front of The Bean. I was restless.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I said.
“You want to go to 9th street espresso?” he said. “They have excellent coffee. Best coffee in the city.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
There's one other facet of my relationship with #98 that I forgot to mention. After we reconnected in a friendly way the previous winter, an odd dynamic had developed. When we’d run into each other, he’d get me to reveal some recent vulnerability. At first he would listen, but, as the conversation wore on, he’d begin telling me that whatever it was was some kind of problem and, because it was mine, I was to blame. Then I’d get angry and walk away. Put simply: he’d pick a fight. The pattern repeated itself several times. But, this summer, there was none of that. There was support, compassion, mutually expressed vulnerability. It was like we were becoming friends.
As we walked deeper into the East Village, I told him how I felt like I was in the eye of the storm. “It’s a big change,” he said. “She’s been staying with you how long?”
“Three months.”
“Three months is enough time to meet someone, get pregnant and breakup,” he said. That, I knew.
We reached the quiet, spacious coffee bar on 9th Street. He bought two lattes and let me choose which one I wanted and where we were going to sit. We took up two stools by the window and somehow got on the topic of ghosts.
“I have a ghost—or had a ghost,” I said.
“Tell me your ghost stories, mama,” he said. I told him my ghost stories. He nodded—believing me— and then told me some of his own ghost stories. After about an hour, he was late to meet a friend, so we walked partway back to our street and then parted ways on 5th St. and 2nd Ave.
The next night, he texted me: Can I take you out for sushi dinner?
At the sushi place up 1st Avenue, I perused the menu.
“Should I get the avocado roll or the cucumber roll? I asked,”
“Sweetie, you get whatever you want,” he said.
I looked at him. He smiled, silently urging me to order everything I could possibly want. His gaze lingered as if I were rolled up in nori and rice, too.
Two days later, it was my birthday. There were six of us out to dinner at Peels on Bleecker and Bowery, including #98. He sat across the wide table next to Zoe. He leaned in to her, telling her jokes. She laughed and played with her hair. To the untrained eye, it would have looked like they were flirting. Jealousy stirred. It was MY birthday; he should be joking with ME.
Before dessert, I switched sides to, as I said, mingle. Everyone sang me happy birthday and then he walked me home and…said good-night.
Maybe I was after something, maybe I was bored or maybe I was just treating him like a friend, but two days later, I called him to thank him for coming to my birthday.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee,” he said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When I walked to the corner, he was sitting on a bench.
“Sit down,” he said sweetly, patting the bench.
Something felt different. Were we experiencing low barometric pressure? Was it about to rain? Was a storm coming? Did #98 just brushed my hair behind my shoulder and run the backs of his fingers across my cheek and down my arm? Is #98 staring into my eyes? Did #98 just put his arm around me and pull me closer, encouraging me to rest my head on his shoulder?
This was more than friendly. I sat there, too stunned to react. I didn’t exactly hate it, so maybe I liked it. I decided that until I sussed out what to do, I would—despite my excess sweat and flushed face—try to act as normal as I possibly could.
We veered nervoulsy from topic to topic and somehow screeched to a halt on the doorstep of marriage.
“Why do you want to get married?” he asked. That was a real question. He was looking for a real answer. This was weird. This whole thing was weird. He wasn’t being open about the fact that he was seriously coming onto me but he wanted me to be open about my thoughts on marriage? I couldn't do it.
“For company,” I said. It was kind of true. There was, of course, more to it than that. Or was there? He knew my answer was bullshit because about two minutes later I’d managed to steer the conversation away from marriage and onto something less perilous—the gym—when he picked a fight.
“You’re very selfish,” he said. “Very self-centered.” On a sidenote, he'd stopped going to the gym or exercising exactly because he thought it was so self-involved.
“Why do you always do this?” I said.
“Do what?” he said. “I’m just telling you how you are. It's good for you to know.”
“I have to go,” I said. I got up and walked back to my building and up to my apartment. But, when I got upstairs, I started laughing. I finally realized what his picking fights with me was really all about.
Signs of Hope: We hadn’t had a fight in months—before this one, anyway. And right before he picked a fight, he was definitely coming onto me.
Red Flags: The whole picking-a-fight thing.
Turning Point: When he picked our last fight.
Diagnosis: For him: The reason he kept picking fights with me was because he needed to keep me at a distance. So when I kept him at a distance with my half-assed answer, he realized he had to re-double his efforts.
For me: Whether or not he deserved it, I was afraid of being vulnerable with him. I gave him a half-assed answer when he asked why I wanted to get married. But my reasons for wanting to get married are much deeper than that. Or are they?
The weekend after the hurricane, Zoe found an apartment and moved out. You could say two hurricanes had passed through—Hurricane Irene and the hurricane created by one sofa-occupying, drama-loving Brit. Because Zoe had finally given up on finding the perfect place, she was able to quickly take a loft share in Williamsburg. There was a strange calm in my apartment. A quiet, uncluttered and unnerving calm. Was this just the eye of the storm? I called #98.
“I’m antsy,” I said.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee.”
It was a hot, humid September Sunday—gray, very post-hurricane. I was wearing my house-outfit: a pink Salvation Army tennis skirt and a T-shirt. We met in front of The Bean. I was restless.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I said.
“You want to go to 9th street espresso?” he said. “They have excellent coffee. Best coffee in the city.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
There's one other facet of my relationship with #98 that I forgot to mention. After we reconnected in a friendly way the previous winter, an odd dynamic had developed. When we’d run into each other, he’d get me to reveal some recent vulnerability. At first he would listen, but, as the conversation wore on, he’d begin telling me that whatever it was was some kind of problem and, because it was mine, I was to blame. Then I’d get angry and walk away. Put simply: he’d pick a fight. The pattern repeated itself several times. But, this summer, there was none of that. There was support, compassion, mutually expressed vulnerability. It was like we were becoming friends.
As we walked deeper into the East Village, I told him how I felt like I was in the eye of the storm. “It’s a big change,” he said. “She’s been staying with you how long?”
“Three months.”
“Three months is enough time to meet someone, get pregnant and breakup,” he said. That, I knew.
We reached the quiet, spacious coffee bar on 9th Street. He bought two lattes and let me choose which one I wanted and where we were going to sit. We took up two stools by the window and somehow got on the topic of ghosts.
“I have a ghost—or had a ghost,” I said.
“Tell me your ghost stories, mama,” he said. I told him my ghost stories. He nodded—believing me— and then told me some of his own ghost stories. After about an hour, he was late to meet a friend, so we walked partway back to our street and then parted ways on 5th St. and 2nd Ave.
The next night, he texted me: Can I take you out for sushi dinner?
At the sushi place up 1st Avenue, I perused the menu.
“Should I get the avocado roll or the cucumber roll? I asked,”
“Sweetie, you get whatever you want,” he said.
I looked at him. He smiled, silently urging me to order everything I could possibly want. His gaze lingered as if I were rolled up in nori and rice, too.
Two days later, it was my birthday. There were six of us out to dinner at Peels on Bleecker and Bowery, including #98. He sat across the wide table next to Zoe. He leaned in to her, telling her jokes. She laughed and played with her hair. To the untrained eye, it would have looked like they were flirting. Jealousy stirred. It was MY birthday; he should be joking with ME.
Before dessert, I switched sides to, as I said, mingle. Everyone sang me happy birthday and then he walked me home and…said good-night.
Maybe I was after something, maybe I was bored or maybe I was just treating him like a friend, but two days later, I called him to thank him for coming to my birthday.
“You want coffee? I buy you coffee,” he said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When I walked to the corner, he was sitting on a bench.
“Sit down,” he said sweetly, patting the bench.
Something felt different. Were we experiencing low barometric pressure? Was it about to rain? Was a storm coming? Did #98 just brushed my hair behind my shoulder and run the backs of his fingers across my cheek and down my arm? Is #98 staring into my eyes? Did #98 just put his arm around me and pull me closer, encouraging me to rest my head on his shoulder?
This was more than friendly. I sat there, too stunned to react. I didn’t exactly hate it, so maybe I liked it. I decided that until I sussed out what to do, I would—despite my excess sweat and flushed face—try to act as normal as I possibly could.
We veered nervoulsy from topic to topic and somehow screeched to a halt on the doorstep of marriage.
“Why do you want to get married?” he asked. That was a real question. He was looking for a real answer. This was weird. This whole thing was weird. He wasn’t being open about the fact that he was seriously coming onto me but he wanted me to be open about my thoughts on marriage? I couldn't do it.
“For company,” I said. It was kind of true. There was, of course, more to it than that. Or was there? He knew my answer was bullshit because about two minutes later I’d managed to steer the conversation away from marriage and onto something less perilous—the gym—when he picked a fight.
“You’re very selfish,” he said. “Very self-centered.” On a sidenote, he'd stopped going to the gym or exercising exactly because he thought it was so self-involved.
“Why do you always do this?” I said.
“Do what?” he said. “I’m just telling you how you are. It's good for you to know.”
“I have to go,” I said. I got up and walked back to my building and up to my apartment. But, when I got upstairs, I started laughing. I finally realized what his picking fights with me was really all about.
Signs of Hope: We hadn’t had a fight in months—before this one, anyway. And right before he picked a fight, he was definitely coming onto me.
Red Flags: The whole picking-a-fight thing.
Turning Point: When he picked our last fight.
Diagnosis: For him: The reason he kept picking fights with me was because he needed to keep me at a distance. So when I kept him at a distance with my half-assed answer, he realized he had to re-double his efforts.
For me: Whether or not he deserved it, I was afraid of being vulnerable with him. I gave him a half-assed answer when he asked why I wanted to get married. But my reasons for wanting to get married are much deeper than that. Or are they?
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