Mr. Unavailable #148: George W.'s Doppelgänger

Vital Stats: 39, 5’11”. Audio engineer with his own commercial sound business. Aesthetic: He wore pale-colored button downs and pants, pale sneakers and had an “I just got off my bike” mussed look. Demeanor: Like he’d been through enough to know that he was in a good spot in life.

I arranged to meet #148 at Ost. I was nervous. I’d only been platinum for 48 hours, so I was still exceedingly self-conscious. I wore a strapless flower dress and black, heeled sandals to give my hair a full glamor effect. When I walked up to him on the corner of 12^th and Ave. A, I detected a look of satisfaction. Relief set in. We said hello and hugged.

Ost was closed for a private event so we went to Café Pick Me Up and sat out front looking at Thompkins Square Park. Looks-wise, there was something young George W. about him — square face and blue, squinty eyes. He was a lot thinner than he looked in his photos and maybe not as tall as he’d said he was. He was nice. He was normal. He was a Democrat. He was from Milwaukee but had been in New York — primarily Brooklyn — for years. He lived alone. In his own apartment.

As I sipped my coffee and he his beer, a drunk guy stumbled by asking for change. A homeless man walked by with his cart of belongings. A transvestite slinked past, giving him the eye. “I feel like we’re having a very East Village experience,” he said.

We were. And we weren’t. Because in a neighborhood teeming with red flags, there were none at our table. He was cute. And maybe a little nerdy. But engaged. I liked him. Not too much but just enough. At the end, he paid and we hugged good-bye in front on the café.

“This was fun. Would you want to get together again?”

“Yes, I would,” I said. “That would be great.”

I called Kevin later to admit my only hesitation. “I kind of feel too glamorous for him,” I said.

“Jeez-us!” Kevin said. “We’ve created a monster.”

The next day, #148 texted asking if I wanted to get noodles on Saturday. A guy who can plan four days in advance. It does exist.

Signs of Hope: He seemed pleased with me. I felt pretty pleased with him.

Red Flags: When Ost, which I had picked, turned out to be closed and we were trying to figure out where to go, he said, “Well, I don’t know. This is your neighborhood.” There was something in his tone.

Turning Point: There were no definitive moments during the date but perhaps he was growing on me.

Diagnosis: Potentially available.

Mr. Unavailable #147: Multiples of Trouble

Vital Stats: 47, 5’11”, manager of a consignment shop. Aesthetic: From what I garnered from his photos, there was something very Talented Mr. Ripley about him. Demeanor: Bad boy.

It was mid-August and I’d weathered a few far too self-introspective weeks with no boy interests and a slow approach to 40. I needed change. Maybe something daring. Maybe something out of my comfort zone. I called Eva, who was in hair school.

“It’s time,” I said. “Let’s do the platinum.”

I’d wanted to do it for 20 years. Ever since I’d done a summer school paper on Marilyn Monroe’s death. Autopsy report and everything. Saturday, August 18, 2012, was the day. I went to Eva’s school on Union Square.

First, it was the bleach.

I’d like to say that I decided to go platinum and never looked back. But when she turned me toward the mirror after the bleaching process, I screamed. “Oh my god, what have I done?” My head was a yellow and white sopping mess, like pina colada sherbet—not the healthy, organic kind, the artificial Yellow Dye #145 kind.

“Don’t worry, I still have to tone it,” she said.

After she toned it, she turned me to the mirror and I screamed again.

“I think it looks great, let me just dry it and put some makeup on you and you’ll see.”

She was right. In a couple of hours I’d gone from room-temp network TV girl-next-door to smoldering cable TV reality star. I looked like trouble. I loved it.

Things on OKCupid were simmering, too, with three matches on deck: Mr. Unavailables #147, #148 and #149. Perhaps it was the new prospects. Or the theory that blondes have more fun. Or all the bleach I’d inhaled. But my introspection evaporated.

Eva persuaded me to let go of my aversion to talking on the phone before meeting online guys. “It’s a great way to see if you click.” From a couple of experiences a few years ago, I’d been operating on the belief that pre-date phone screenings didn’t work.

Experience #1: The 3D artist who said he flew airplanes and looked like Tom Ford. We got along famously on the phone, but when we met, things went from 3D to 1D. Fast. All I remember was how he bragged about being friends with Treat Williams. Treat Williams? Really?

Experience #2: In my head, I picture him as a cowboy. He was from the Bronx or Brooklyn or upstate and had some kind of outer-borough drawl. It turned me off. “So, would you like to get together,” he said. “Um, I get the sense we’re not a match,” I said. I felt bad. I wasn’t giving him much of a chance, was I. After that, I dispensed with the pre-date phone calls. For years...

...Until now. I talked to #147 on a Friday night. During our conversation, he billed himself thusly: “I’m the guy who says what everyone else is thinking but no one wants to say.” He sounded like my level of trouble multiplied by a thousand.

As for #148, he wrote back four days after I’d emailed him. Which is a really long time in online-dating land. I’d said: “I think we’d get along.” And he’d replied: “I think we would get along, too.” We made a coffee date for a Monday.

The third one, #149, wanted to talk on the phone, too. He sounded normal enough… talking about how he lived in Jersey, what he did for a living…however, his conversational filter had some design flaws. He let slip that his best friend had nicknamed his last two girlfriends “reclamation projects.” Noted.

Now back to #147. He was 47. Living on the Upper East Side. Managing a consignment store. All of that was fine. But he described his life as one big waterskiing/beach-house-hopping/pissing-people-off adventure. Where was the sense of responsibility? He was only capable of meeting up with me at the last second, and when we did finally set a date, he texted a few hours before with bad news. It went like this:

#147: Hi. So sorry. Owner acting up threatening to fire me or has. Have to deal with the situation. So so sorry.

Sure, I could infer his meaning, but I wanted him to come out and say it.  

Me: Canceling?

#147: I think I have to. Already called lawyer. Sorry. I would send a sad emoticon but not my thing. I was so looking forward to it.

Me: Yikes. Well, good luck with everything.

#147: Thanks. Will let you know.

[The next day.]

#147: Fired. How are you?

Me: Sorry to hear. Is everything OK?

#147: Yeah, it is not over in some sense. I have a contract. Promise to come next time.

[A week later.]

#147: Hi  how are you today

While his job drama may not have been over in some sense, his chance with me was over in every sense. I didn't reply. Did I really need to know about the lawyer? Or the threatening boss? Who knows if it was even true. Like Hitler said, if you’re going to lie, lie big (not a direct quote). 

Signs of Hope: Few. He was trouble from the start.

Red Flags: How he billed himself. And all his dramatic developments.

Turning Point: When I had to ask, “Canceling?” He couldn’t man up.

Diagnosis: He’s simply way too old to be a rebel.

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? 

Mr. Unavailable #143: My Inner Cheerleader

See The C Word and Real or Reflected for the background on this one.

After our Sunday brunch/Met/PR Day Parade date, #143 and I kept in touch through Words With Friends—a game at which I was killing him. When the next Saturday rolled around, I wondered why I hadn’t heard from him. I messaged him over WWF to ask how his week was. He replied.

#143: Did you get my email?

I hadn’t. He re-sent it to a different email box. When I got it, the formerly missing email asked if I wanted to go see Speigelworld. As we know, I looove Speigelworld. Everyone had busy schedules, so we set the date for Friday.

On Friday, nearly two weeks after our first date, waiting for him in front of the broke-down Speigeltent situated in a random parking lot in Times Square-slash-Hell’s Kitchen, I summoned my inner cheerleader. You may not think he’s cute when he gets here. But that’s OK. You’ve gone back and forth on guys before and they’ve sometimes become really attractive to you. Eventually.  

Finally, he appeared. OK, this isn’t so bad. He was in a polo shirt and khakis and had a messenger bag slung across his back. You can work with this. We hugged. While it was true he looked acceptable—cute-ish, even—an unacceptable scent was emanating from his facial area.

Judging from the heavy, earthy aroma (dirty-earthy not fragrant-earthy) wafting from his mouth, he’d begun his day with coffee and proceeded to drink coffee for perhaps a great portion of the day. It’s entirely possible he’d even inhaled a good dose of city dirt and truck exhaust, too, because he said he’d been on a job site most of the day. Maybe he hadn’t had time to check his breath or find gum or even know that a breath-check was necessary. Or maybe he just wasn’t all that hygienic. Whatever. That could be fixed, my internal cheerleader said.

We went into the tent and found our seats. Other than the diesel fumes wafting toward me, the only other disconcerting thing was that both of us were sort of turned away from each other in our seats. I was supposed to be that way because I wasn’t so into him, but…he was doing it, too.

After Speigelworld, #143 had made a reservation for us at Northern Spy in the East Village. It was one of those mindful restaurants where all the animals used for food were raised happily until they died. And when the restaurant served pig, for example, it served ALL of the pig—slowly, over the course of a few weeks.

When we got there, it was pork belly night. The rest of the menu was laden with fish. A few months before, after sending yet another fish dish back at a restaurant because it was too fishy, Kevin begged me just to admit that I didn’t like fish. So pork belly it was.

#143 asked me if I had any travel plans for the summer. “Nope,” I said. I asked him about his.

“In a few weeks I’m headed out west with Alice and Harry to go rock climbing and then in August I’m heading to Denmark to see a friend of mine and then I figured that while I was there, I might as well travel down to the Maldives to see what’s down there…”

Just like in our earlier phone conversation, my exotic-travel cred got taken down another notch. And then the appetizer came. I’d agreed to share a fish-based starter with him. I didn’t like it. And then the pork came and, it turned out, “pork belly” is the glistening fatty part of the pork. I didn’t like that either. On top of my exotic travel cred being damaged, my adventuresome-food rep was taking a beating, too.

When the bill came and I took out my wallet, he said, “Oh, no, no. I have this thing where if I ask the person out, I pay.”

I excused myself to go to the restroom and tried to psych myself up. It was the second date, after all, so it might be appropriate to kiss him. He pays. He travels…you can totally kiss him if it comes to it. Maybe it’ll even be good.

And then I thought of his breath.

Walking down the street after exiting the restaurant, I asked if maybe he wanted a dessert. I wanted to spring for something to show my gratitude—and maybe also put off the inevitable. He declined, saying he had to get up early to do—I forget what, probably something adventure-y.

“So, I have sort of a conundrum,” he said.

There it was. I don’t know if it was the tone of his voice or the words, but like a Pavlovian dog that’s been dumped too many times, my heart sank reflexively, thinking, “Is he breaking up with me?”

Wait, wait, wait, I reminded myself. There’s nothing to break up and you’re not even that into him anyway. My inner cheerleader tossed down her pom-poms and breathed a sigh of relief.

“OK?” I said.

“So, I’ve been seeing someone for a few months and she wants a relationship with me and I’m not sure if I want one with her. Although when we first started dating she asked me if I wanted a relationship and I said yes, but that didn’t mean that I wanted one with her, but I think that’s what she thought. So I thought I could see more than one person, but I don’t think I can.”

“OK,” I said, unsure of why he was telling me this.

“I was going to call you last night to tell you, but then a friend of mine said not to because I’d left it til too late. She said you might not have wanted to have gone tonight.”

“OK,” I said, still unsure of why he was telling me this but fairly sure that his friend was right. “So, you’re dating someone but you don’t want a relationship with her?”

From there, the conversation took a weird turn where I began to council him on what he was doing with this other girl. I managed to turn the conversation back. “So, are you saying we’re friends?”

“Well, yes, if you’d like to be.”

There it was. I experienced a combined sense of relief and rejection. This meant I wouldn’t have to kiss him. Or try to like him. And, hey, it hadn’t even cost me anything. But then, he was rejecting me? Because he had multiple options? What kind of bizarre-o world was this?

“I’d really like to be friends. I mean, I think you’re a riot.”

I’m a riot?

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said.

“Oh, well, yeah, in my book, it’s the highest compliment.”

Well, it was nice to know I entertained him.

He walked me back to my building. We hugged and I turned to unlock the front door.

“So, I’ll see you again sometime?”

I turned back. “Oh, hey, you never know,” I said.

“Well, you’ll still kill me at Words With Friends, right?” he asked.

“Probably,” I said.

We waved good-bye and he turned and walked away down the street. The next day, I resigned our WWF game. I had enough friends. And even if he got closure with his other situation, I didn’t like him—or his breath—enough to stick around.

Signs of Hope: He arranged a show and dinner and sprang for the whole thing.

Red Flags: Two weeks between dates. The body language.

Turning Point: My conflicting feelings when he said, “I have a conundrum.” I’d been rejected! By someone I didn’t find attractive! But I was now free! I didn’t have to kiss him!

Diagnosis: For him: Clearly, he didn’t have the stink of commitment on him, he had the stink of all-day-dirt-and-coffee breath.

For me: I feel compelled to force myself to like a guy simply because he’s got the word “commitment” attached to him?