See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same and Sanity Takes a Turn for the background on this one.
What Happened: Mr. Unavailable #98 and I had become friends. To recap: We’d gone for a midnight snack one Saturday night and he’d admitted he only went for crazy women and had pretty much taken a vow of celibacy. After that, he became a safe fill-in for dateless Saturday nights. The Saturday before he went on a three-week trip to his motherland, I was on my way back from Boston on the Chinatown bus and knew I was headed for a lonely Saturday night, so I texted him:
Me: Midnight snack? On Chinatown bus from Boston.
#98: K
Me: Will u be awake?
#98: I ll be glad to be awake for you
It turned out he was awake but not for me—he had to be awake to give emergency anesthesia to someone else. So I didn't see him. And then he went to Russia.
Four weeks later, my neighborhood became part of Hurricane Irene’s Evacuation Zone C. With potential disaster upon us, I was feeling neighborly, so I called him.
“Are you excited for the hurricane?” I asked.
“No, Mama. Want to meet for coffee? I buy you coffee,” he said.
We met on the corner in front of The Bean. It was Saturday around noon. We sat on the benches talking about his trip and counting down the minutes until the subway closed and the rain began.
“I have to go to the hardware store to get supplies for my hurricane projects,” I said. While everyone else had rushed the grocery stores for food and the hardware stores for emergency supplies, I’d developed a list of things to do in the event of days of boredom: organize my receipts, go through my pile of magazines, do a facemask—or three—whiten my teeth a couple of times and hang Chinese lanterns from my bedroom ceiling. The string was for the latter.
“I go with you to hardware store,” he said. At Ace, he provided moral support for my purchase. Outside, the rain that had started as a drizzle had become a pour. I told #98 that Zoe and I were making camp later and that he should come over and camp out with us. He said OK and then we went our separate ways.
A few hours later, I was in the midst or organizing my receipts (Hurricane Project #3) and Zoe was in the midst of concocting a chef’s salad (Hurricane Project #1) when the wind began hammering against the windows. I texted #98 to check in.
Me: How u doing?
#98: Terrible
Me: Why? Want to come over?
#98: Will you feed me
Me: Yes. We have food. We are making a camp. Want to camp? Jo is making sandwiches
#98: Can I come in a couple of minutes
Me: Yes of course. We are going to start watching movies in a little while. We are in our pajamas so feel free to dress down.
When he walked in about an hour later, we’d pulled out the sofa-bed and were laying around in our granny pajamas eating sandwiches.
“Here, sit here,” I said, patting the bed between me and Zoe.
“Want a sandwich?” Zoe asked. She gave him one of her melted cheese-and-British surprise sandwiches.
“This is a tiny sandwich. Five of these are a real sandwich,” he said. I may have forgotten to mention, playing the curmudgeon was part of his shtick, so this complaint—and every one that came before and went after—went ignored.
Then he ate the sandwich. “I’m still hungry,” he said.
“We have ice cream…crackers…cheese…grapes…” We offered him everything. Because we were prepared to cater to the curmudgeon's demands, he politely declined.
The curmudgeon went away for a little while but then reappeared with Hurricane Project #5: Watching a movie.
“This movie so slow,” he said about 20 minutes into it.
“It’s lit terribly,” Zoe agreed.
“Do you guys want to put something else on?” I asked.
They both shook their heads.
A few minutes later, #98 said he had to go.
“Thank you so much, ladies, for the hospitality,” he said.
“Call us later if you get scared,” I said.
After he left, Zoe said, “You should have seen the look on his face when he walked in. He didn’t know what to make of it. He thought he was going to get lucky. And the way he looked at you…he definitely wants to know.”
Signs of Hope: He wants to know.
Red Flags: It seems he’s wanted to know for a while now but has never done anything about it.
Turning Point: When he came over to hang out. Having Zoe there as chaperone would have been the only time it would have ever been safe for him to come over.
Diagnosis: For Him: Still unavailable.
For Me: I think I’d be afraid to be available to him.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #127: Last Call
See Fro-Yo Guy and The Strawberry Fields Fairy for the background on this one.
Five days after lunch with #127, I was heading back to New York City from Boston on the Chinatown bus when #127 texted me.
#127: How are your fro-yo levels?
Me: Low. It’s been three days.
#127: Wow. That’s a while. Been a couple for me too. Might hafta hit handles.
Me: Yeah, that’s totally understandable. It’s a Saturday night. Lots of people are doing it. It’s not like you have a problem or anything.
#127: Exactly. EVERYONE is doing it. I just DJ’d all day in the heat. Gonna shower and then might get my fro-yo levels straighten out. If you’re free let me know if you’d wanna join me.
Me: Wow. DJ. I had no idea. I’d love to join you for some Handles but I’m on the Chinatown bus heading back from Boston. Won’t be back until late.
#127: OHHHH YEAH, I forgot you were in Boston. How’d it go?
Me: It was really good.
#127: When’s your bus getting in?
Let’s stop there for a moment. When I read his question, my hopes shot up. Any girl’s would. But here’s the thing: My bus wasn’t getting in until midnight. He’d just set himself up. If he didn’t offer to meet me, he’d look lame. There was no way around it. I'd already said I was getting in late. And if he did offer to meet me, he was looking more available than I sensed he probably wanted to look.
Me: My bus gets in at midnight.
Fifteen minutes went by before he responded.
#127: You should try to go straight to handles for last call. Think it’s 1230am on sat.
Ouch! A recommendation? When I got home, I did make a last call, but it wasn’t to 16 Handles. I called #98 and we went for a midnight snack.
A week later, I decided to go to Strawberry Fields for frozen yogurt after lunch. When I walked in, #127 was there. I was wearing a maroon velveteen dress, so I look pretty saucy, which he appeared to appreciate. We got our frozen yogurts—separately—and then, even though he’d just said he’d been on a two-hour lunch break, he offered to walk with me down toward the seaport. As we talked, I felt like I was making up more my previous over-availability. Not once did I ask, “When?” And, naturally, he wasn’t going to offer up a when.
He walked me back to my office building and we hugged good-bye, saying we should do this again soon.
Signs of Hope: He did seem happy to see me when we ran into each other.
Red Flags: A week after I ran into him, I still hadn’t heard from him.
Turning Point: It was more of a gradual fade-out than a turning point. As more time passed and I still hadn't hear from him, his unavailability was sealed.
Diagnosis: For him: I wonder if the whole two weeks that we were communicating, he was encumbered in another relationship of some kind. Or maybe I'm giving him too much credit.
For me: Wow, that one didn't linger. Maybe that means the unavailable encounters are getting shorter, making room for the available encounters. Or maybe I'm giving the universe too much credit.
Postscript: On Oct. 21, two and a half months after we’d run into each other, I received a text from #127: Hey Tara. It’s [#127]. Long time no see. How’s it going? Still eating lots of fro-yo?
My guess is that he was recently unencumbered. I, however, was just becoming encumbered with #133. I happened to be with Kevin when I got his text. “Should I bother?”
Kevin just shook his head, “Uh, no.”
Five days after lunch with #127, I was heading back to New York City from Boston on the Chinatown bus when #127 texted me.
#127: How are your fro-yo levels?
Me: Low. It’s been three days.
#127: Wow. That’s a while. Been a couple for me too. Might hafta hit handles.
Me: Yeah, that’s totally understandable. It’s a Saturday night. Lots of people are doing it. It’s not like you have a problem or anything.
#127: Exactly. EVERYONE is doing it. I just DJ’d all day in the heat. Gonna shower and then might get my fro-yo levels straighten out. If you’re free let me know if you’d wanna join me.
Me: Wow. DJ. I had no idea. I’d love to join you for some Handles but I’m on the Chinatown bus heading back from Boston. Won’t be back until late.
#127: OHHHH YEAH, I forgot you were in Boston. How’d it go?
Me: It was really good.
#127: When’s your bus getting in?
Let’s stop there for a moment. When I read his question, my hopes shot up. Any girl’s would. But here’s the thing: My bus wasn’t getting in until midnight. He’d just set himself up. If he didn’t offer to meet me, he’d look lame. There was no way around it. I'd already said I was getting in late. And if he did offer to meet me, he was looking more available than I sensed he probably wanted to look.
Me: My bus gets in at midnight.
Fifteen minutes went by before he responded.
#127: You should try to go straight to handles for last call. Think it’s 1230am on sat.
Ouch! A recommendation? When I got home, I did make a last call, but it wasn’t to 16 Handles. I called #98 and we went for a midnight snack.
A week later, I decided to go to Strawberry Fields for frozen yogurt after lunch. When I walked in, #127 was there. I was wearing a maroon velveteen dress, so I look pretty saucy, which he appeared to appreciate. We got our frozen yogurts—separately—and then, even though he’d just said he’d been on a two-hour lunch break, he offered to walk with me down toward the seaport. As we talked, I felt like I was making up more my previous over-availability. Not once did I ask, “When?” And, naturally, he wasn’t going to offer up a when.
He walked me back to my office building and we hugged good-bye, saying we should do this again soon.
Signs of Hope: He did seem happy to see me when we ran into each other.
Red Flags: A week after I ran into him, I still hadn’t heard from him.
Turning Point: It was more of a gradual fade-out than a turning point. As more time passed and I still hadn't hear from him, his unavailability was sealed.
Diagnosis: For him: I wonder if the whole two weeks that we were communicating, he was encumbered in another relationship of some kind. Or maybe I'm giving him too much credit.
For me: Wow, that one didn't linger. Maybe that means the unavailable encounters are getting shorter, making room for the available encounters. Or maybe I'm giving the universe too much credit.
Postscript: On Oct. 21, two and a half months after we’d run into each other, I received a text from #127: Hey Tara. It’s [#127]. Long time no see. How’s it going? Still eating lots of fro-yo?
My guess is that he was recently unencumbered. I, however, was just becoming encumbered with #133. I happened to be with Kevin when I got his text. “Should I bother?”
Kevin just shook his head, “Uh, no.”
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Mr. Unavailables #129 through #132: Firemen
Vital Stats: Firemen. Need I say more?
It was a Sunday afternoon and Zoe and I were slowly sorting out the disaster of my apartment when the smoke detector went off. Or at least we thought it was the smoke detector until we fanned it with pillows and it didn’t stop beeping. I climbed up on my ladder and pulled it off the wall to find it was actually a carbon monoxide detector. A guide on the back described three different patterns of beeps—one for a low battery, one for a malfunction and one for carbon monoxide.
After we listened a couple of times, we knew we were listening to the pattern for carbon monoxide. I had an extra battery in the refrigerator, so in a last-ditch effort to not call 911, we swapped it out. It was the same pattern. In a second last-ditch effort to not call 911, I called 311 and explained the situation.
“Hi. I have a carbon monoxide detector that’s going off and I’m sure it’s nothing but it’s making the beeping pattern for carbon monoxide.”
“Please hold while I switch you to 911,” the operator said. So much for avoiding 911.
The 911 operator asked for my address and then said emergency services were en route.
“OK,” I said. I hung up and told Zoe they were on their way.
“Actually, I kind of do have a headache,” she said.
“Actually, so do I,” I said.
“Maybe there really is gas,” she said.
Forgetting that I could be inhaling toxic fumes, I looked around my apartment and realized that actual firemen were going to be walking into my apartment any second. If I wanted any kind of a future with one of my would-be rescuers, I was about to make a very bad impression. I began throwing laundry and other clutter into closets and vacant crevices. Two minutes later, the buzzer rang. “Hello,” I answered casually.
“Fire department.”
“Fourth floor,” I said, buzzing them in as if they were suitors.
Thirty seconds later, I led an entourage of four fully equipped firefighters into my apartment.
I’ve always wondered if firemen were just coincidentally hot or if it was just something about the uniforms that just made them all look hot. The first two to walk in were older. Not hot. The second two were younger. Hot. They looked around as if Zoe and I had just invited them upstairs after a double date. They were taking everything in, including, I hoped, us.
“Hi,” I said to the second not-hot one as the first not-hot one passed me. I handed the first one the detector. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I called 311 first, but they transferred it to 911.”
“I’ve got zero parts per million,” the first not-hot one said as he pressed a button on a gadget.
“We tried two different batteries and it was definitely making the beeping for the carbon monoxide,” I said.
“Yeah, sometimes these things just malfunction,” the second not-hot one said.
“Sorry about that,” I said again.
“That’s OK,” the first not-hot one said as they turned to go. “Usually it happens at three in the morning.”
The not-hot ones went out the door and the hot ones took one last look around before they went out.
“Thanks a lot. Sorry!” I said. The hot ones turned as if to say good-bye, then, as if thinking better of it, turned back and disappeared down the stairs.
“Well, that was exciting,” I said to Zoe as I closed the door behind them.
"Yeah, and we thought we were feeling sick from gas," she said, giggling.
As she said it, something dawned on me. Usually one to play with her hair and bat her eyelashes when masculinity was in proximity, Zoe had not only never moved from her spot on the sofa but she’d also never said a word.
“Did you even say anything?” I asked her.
“No, I sat here like a perfect angel,” she said, and then she laughed diabolically and ran her hands through some low strands of hair.
She looked at me. “Wait, wasn’t your hair up and didn’t you have your glasses on?”
Oh, that. In the moments before I opened the door, I ditched my scrunchy and my glasses in the bathroom and gave my hair a tousle.
She cackled. “You removed your glasses and took down your hair,” she said, pointing at me.
"You didn't even try to flirt with them," I said, pointing back. “And those second two were cute....”
As the words came out of my mouth, I temporarily forgot that avoiding a carbon monoxide disaster was a good thing and, for a moment, lamented what could have been.
Signs of Hope: For the two hot ones: Clearly, they were intrigued in some way.
Red Flags: Even if they hadn’t been there purely on business, it had all happened so fast that I didn’t even think to ask which firehouse they’d come from.
Turning Point: When the first not-hot one said the words, “zero parts per million,” it eliminated all hope of a possible rescue.
Diagnosis: As far as the hot ones go...I’m not sure about their availability, but, if they see this, they should really let us know.
It was a Sunday afternoon and Zoe and I were slowly sorting out the disaster of my apartment when the smoke detector went off. Or at least we thought it was the smoke detector until we fanned it with pillows and it didn’t stop beeping. I climbed up on my ladder and pulled it off the wall to find it was actually a carbon monoxide detector. A guide on the back described three different patterns of beeps—one for a low battery, one for a malfunction and one for carbon monoxide.
After we listened a couple of times, we knew we were listening to the pattern for carbon monoxide. I had an extra battery in the refrigerator, so in a last-ditch effort to not call 911, we swapped it out. It was the same pattern. In a second last-ditch effort to not call 911, I called 311 and explained the situation.
“Hi. I have a carbon monoxide detector that’s going off and I’m sure it’s nothing but it’s making the beeping pattern for carbon monoxide.”
“Please hold while I switch you to 911,” the operator said. So much for avoiding 911.
The 911 operator asked for my address and then said emergency services were en route.
“OK,” I said. I hung up and told Zoe they were on their way.
“Actually, I kind of do have a headache,” she said.
“Actually, so do I,” I said.
“Maybe there really is gas,” she said.
Forgetting that I could be inhaling toxic fumes, I looked around my apartment and realized that actual firemen were going to be walking into my apartment any second. If I wanted any kind of a future with one of my would-be rescuers, I was about to make a very bad impression. I began throwing laundry and other clutter into closets and vacant crevices. Two minutes later, the buzzer rang. “Hello,” I answered casually.
“Fire department.”
“Fourth floor,” I said, buzzing them in as if they were suitors.
Thirty seconds later, I led an entourage of four fully equipped firefighters into my apartment.
I’ve always wondered if firemen were just coincidentally hot or if it was just something about the uniforms that just made them all look hot. The first two to walk in were older. Not hot. The second two were younger. Hot. They looked around as if Zoe and I had just invited them upstairs after a double date. They were taking everything in, including, I hoped, us.
“Hi,” I said to the second not-hot one as the first not-hot one passed me. I handed the first one the detector. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I called 311 first, but they transferred it to 911.”
“I’ve got zero parts per million,” the first not-hot one said as he pressed a button on a gadget.
“We tried two different batteries and it was definitely making the beeping for the carbon monoxide,” I said.
“Yeah, sometimes these things just malfunction,” the second not-hot one said.
“Sorry about that,” I said again.
“That’s OK,” the first not-hot one said as they turned to go. “Usually it happens at three in the morning.”
The not-hot ones went out the door and the hot ones took one last look around before they went out.
“Thanks a lot. Sorry!” I said. The hot ones turned as if to say good-bye, then, as if thinking better of it, turned back and disappeared down the stairs.
“Well, that was exciting,” I said to Zoe as I closed the door behind them.
"Yeah, and we thought we were feeling sick from gas," she said, giggling.
As she said it, something dawned on me. Usually one to play with her hair and bat her eyelashes when masculinity was in proximity, Zoe had not only never moved from her spot on the sofa but she’d also never said a word.
“Did you even say anything?” I asked her.
“No, I sat here like a perfect angel,” she said, and then she laughed diabolically and ran her hands through some low strands of hair.
She looked at me. “Wait, wasn’t your hair up and didn’t you have your glasses on?”
Oh, that. In the moments before I opened the door, I ditched my scrunchy and my glasses in the bathroom and gave my hair a tousle.
She cackled. “You removed your glasses and took down your hair,” she said, pointing at me.
"You didn't even try to flirt with them," I said, pointing back. “And those second two were cute....”
As the words came out of my mouth, I temporarily forgot that avoiding a carbon monoxide disaster was a good thing and, for a moment, lamented what could have been.
Signs of Hope: For the two hot ones: Clearly, they were intrigued in some way.
Red Flags: Even if they hadn’t been there purely on business, it had all happened so fast that I didn’t even think to ask which firehouse they’d come from.
Turning Point: When the first not-hot one said the words, “zero parts per million,” it eliminated all hope of a possible rescue.
Diagnosis: As far as the hot ones go...I’m not sure about their availability, but, if they see this, they should really let us know.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #127: The Strawberry Fields Fairy
See Fro-Yo Guy for the background on this one.
When I got to work on Monday—lunch-date day—I realized I had a meeting at 1:30.
I texted #127: Oops. I have a meeting today at 1:30. Can you do lunch at noon? Sorry about that.
He texted back: NP.
I got to the Pret a Manger on Maiden Lane early and he was running a little late, so in the time I sat waiting for him, I became inexplicably nervous.
When he got there, he was appropriately apologetic for his lateness and I was still, and strangely, incredibly nervous. The stress level in my office was on high and there were meetings, and meetings made me anxious, but I still couldn’t account for my severe case of nerves. We got some sandwiches and drinks from the display cases and went up to the registers. I made sure he was a little ahead of me. It was the moment of truth. Would he pay or wouldn’t he? Was this a date or was this not a date?
He sidled up to one register and began to pay for his sandwich. The register to his left opened up and I went up and put my purchasable goods down. His cash was in his hand. I was slow to retrieve my wallet from my smallish purse, fishing around in it as if I was having trouble locating it. From out of the corner of my eye, I saw his cash go back into his wallet and his wallet go into his back pocket.
On the bright side, I was no longer nervous. On the dark side, I now had to talk myself out of being angry and, resultantly, disconnected: “It’s OK. It is just a quick lunch during work, it’s more like a meet-and-greet, not really a REAL lunch-lunch.”
We sat down and filled each other in on who we were. We covered the basics—family, siblings, where we were from, what we were like in high school. I was vaguely checked out due to the other conversation I was having with myself in my head.
I decided to be strategic about what I told him, so I informed him that I was heading to Boston to see my nephew that weekend and then going back to the Boston area the next weekend for my family reunion. It was my attempt to clue him in on my availability for the next couple of weeks so that he might take it upon himself to work around it.
So far, he wasn’t appearing very clued in.
“Should we go to Strawberry Fields?” he asked after we were done eating.
“Let’s go,” I said. Little did he know, it was like a second chance for him.
When we walked up to the frozen yogurt store, a tiny brunette girl who worked there was standing outside with a tray of samples.
“Would you like to try some?” she asked.
“Sure,” we said, trying some.
“We were going to come in here anyway,” #127 said.
“Are you two married?” she asked. I just smiled and looked at him. I was going to enjoy this.
“No, we’re not,” he said.
“Are you dating?”
“We’re just friends,” he said.
“You two should get together. Because you both have really pretty eyes. You’d have cute kids.”
I could think of a better reason for us getting together—like him springing for lunch—but that hadn’t happened. We looked at each others’ eye. His were a bright pale blue. I had to admit, they were pretty. We both nodded in tacit agreement that we both did, indeed, have pretty eyes.
“You should buy her her frozen yogurt,” she said to him. “Women like that. We like to be treated. It impresses us. It’ll impress her.”
Somewhere, there was a god.
“Well, OK,” he said, as if that hadn’t actually been a forgone conclusion.
We self-served our fro-yos, he paid, I said “thank you” and then we walked down toward the seaport. There was a marked uptick in mood on my side of things, which helped power our continued get-to-know-you conversation, and then, finally, he said, “Maybe one day we could take the ferry from here over to Williamsburg and I could show you around.”
“That sounds great,” I said. And then—maybe because I was already becoming familiar with his passiveness or maybe because a huge dose of sugar had just hit my bloodstream—I asked, “When?”
Insert awkward pause. “I don’t know, I can’t tomorrow or the next day,” he said.
“And I’m gone this weekend,” I said, trying to sound a little less available.
“Well, soon,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
And then he walked me back to my building and we hugged good-bye.
Signs of Hope: He—eventually—paid for something. And he suggested a tentative next—I hesitate to say “date”—get-together.
Red Flags: He didn’t pay for lunch, he had to be prompted to pay for frozen yogurt and he didn’t set a date for our next…date? Get-together? Friendly guided tour?
Turning Point: When the little frozen yogurt fairy appeared and said, “You should buy her her frozen yogurt.”
Diagnosis: For him: He’s seeming a tad unavailable.
For me: Why do I keep hoping that these guys will suddenly show signs of availability? Why? Why?
When I got to work on Monday—lunch-date day—I realized I had a meeting at 1:30.
I texted #127: Oops. I have a meeting today at 1:30. Can you do lunch at noon? Sorry about that.
He texted back: NP.
I got to the Pret a Manger on Maiden Lane early and he was running a little late, so in the time I sat waiting for him, I became inexplicably nervous.
When he got there, he was appropriately apologetic for his lateness and I was still, and strangely, incredibly nervous. The stress level in my office was on high and there were meetings, and meetings made me anxious, but I still couldn’t account for my severe case of nerves. We got some sandwiches and drinks from the display cases and went up to the registers. I made sure he was a little ahead of me. It was the moment of truth. Would he pay or wouldn’t he? Was this a date or was this not a date?
He sidled up to one register and began to pay for his sandwich. The register to his left opened up and I went up and put my purchasable goods down. His cash was in his hand. I was slow to retrieve my wallet from my smallish purse, fishing around in it as if I was having trouble locating it. From out of the corner of my eye, I saw his cash go back into his wallet and his wallet go into his back pocket.
On the bright side, I was no longer nervous. On the dark side, I now had to talk myself out of being angry and, resultantly, disconnected: “It’s OK. It is just a quick lunch during work, it’s more like a meet-and-greet, not really a REAL lunch-lunch.”
We sat down and filled each other in on who we were. We covered the basics—family, siblings, where we were from, what we were like in high school. I was vaguely checked out due to the other conversation I was having with myself in my head.
I decided to be strategic about what I told him, so I informed him that I was heading to Boston to see my nephew that weekend and then going back to the Boston area the next weekend for my family reunion. It was my attempt to clue him in on my availability for the next couple of weeks so that he might take it upon himself to work around it.
So far, he wasn’t appearing very clued in.
“Should we go to Strawberry Fields?” he asked after we were done eating.
“Let’s go,” I said. Little did he know, it was like a second chance for him.
When we walked up to the frozen yogurt store, a tiny brunette girl who worked there was standing outside with a tray of samples.
“Would you like to try some?” she asked.
“Sure,” we said, trying some.
“We were going to come in here anyway,” #127 said.
“Are you two married?” she asked. I just smiled and looked at him. I was going to enjoy this.
“No, we’re not,” he said.
“Are you dating?”
“We’re just friends,” he said.
“You two should get together. Because you both have really pretty eyes. You’d have cute kids.”
I could think of a better reason for us getting together—like him springing for lunch—but that hadn’t happened. We looked at each others’ eye. His were a bright pale blue. I had to admit, they were pretty. We both nodded in tacit agreement that we both did, indeed, have pretty eyes.
“You should buy her her frozen yogurt,” she said to him. “Women like that. We like to be treated. It impresses us. It’ll impress her.”
Somewhere, there was a god.
“Well, OK,” he said, as if that hadn’t actually been a forgone conclusion.
We self-served our fro-yos, he paid, I said “thank you” and then we walked down toward the seaport. There was a marked uptick in mood on my side of things, which helped power our continued get-to-know-you conversation, and then, finally, he said, “Maybe one day we could take the ferry from here over to Williamsburg and I could show you around.”
“That sounds great,” I said. And then—maybe because I was already becoming familiar with his passiveness or maybe because a huge dose of sugar had just hit my bloodstream—I asked, “When?”
Insert awkward pause. “I don’t know, I can’t tomorrow or the next day,” he said.
“And I’m gone this weekend,” I said, trying to sound a little less available.
“Well, soon,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
And then he walked me back to my building and we hugged good-bye.
Signs of Hope: He—eventually—paid for something. And he suggested a tentative next—I hesitate to say “date”—get-together.
Red Flags: He didn’t pay for lunch, he had to be prompted to pay for frozen yogurt and he didn’t set a date for our next…date? Get-together? Friendly guided tour?
Turning Point: When the little frozen yogurt fairy appeared and said, “You should buy her her frozen yogurt.”
Diagnosis: For him: He’s seeming a tad unavailable.
For me: Why do I keep hoping that these guys will suddenly show signs of availability? Why? Why?
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #127: Fro-Yo Guy
Vital Stats: 39, 6”ish. Otherwise, a poor man’s George Clooney: salt-and-pepper hair with a three-months-along paunch. Aesthetic: The acceptable side of preppy. Demeanor: Nice guy. Chatty. Approachable.
First Impression: “Of course, the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
Second Impression: “Is he gay?”
What Happened: To rewind a bit, in June, on the emotional roller coaster of a day when #126 and I flirtatiously texted (he likes me!) and then I met him in the park only to find he had company (he doesn’t like me!), after which he called to see if I wanted to go to a movie with them (he likes me!), while they all went to that movie, I went to a Sunday night gathering of likeminded downtowners (maybe he thinks I don't like him!). When I got to the gathering, I scanned the room, as I do, and spied #127 a few rows over. He was sitting next to a girl. “Of course,” I thought, “the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
On my way home, I ran into the two of them on 2nd Avenue. #127 recognized me instantly and seemed happy to see me (he likes me!). But then, when he spoke, he had a lilt that made me think he might be gay (he doesn’t like me!). They were both from Brooklyn—he lived in Williamsburg—and they were going for self-serve frozen yogurt at 16 Handles. As they tried to persuade me to go with them, I realized they weren’t together (he likes me!). But, still trying to wrap my head around #126, I wasn’t in the mood for a get-to-know-you yogurt with new people, so I went home (maybe he thinks I don't like him!).
Fast-forward a month to the near-present. The day I learned I wasn’t getting the apartment from #126, I was in need of a little perking up and remembered #127. I revisited the place I’d first seen him. When I walked in, I saw him across the room and then followed these next five steps:
1. Pretend you don’t see him.
2. Wander over to where he is as if you’re trying to figure out where to sit.
3. Sit down immediately behind him.
4. When he turns around and says, “Hey!” act surprised.
5. As if it hadn’t been your plan all along, get up and sit down next to him, saying, “Oh…well…I’ll just sit next to you.”
After the show, we turned to each other and talk, naturally, turned to self-serve fro-yo. “There’s a new place down where I work,” he said. “Not as good as 16 Handles but passable.”
“Where’s that?” We lingered at the front of the room as everyone filtered out past us.
“The financial district. On Fulton.”
“Oh, that’s where I work,” I said. “But I’m closer to South Street Seaport.” An obvious first date was percolating. I asked about the girl from the month before. He said he’d heard she’d moved to California and then described the events leading up to how he met her.
“She was friends with an ex-girlfriend of mine,” he said, fidgeting at the mention of his ex. “…but that was nothing, really not much of an important relationship…not an important relationship at all.” I asked about Williamsburg and told him I was thinking about moving there.
“I found my place through an ex-girlfriend…” he said, getting fidgety again, “…it was nothing, just a summer fling…” Every mention of an ex came with a disclaimer. I liked that. “Hey, I should get your number and then if I hear of anything…”
I gave him my number. The next day he texted me a photo of a Strawberry Fields cup of fro-yo.
Me: Ah, even though it sucks, you just had to do it.
#127: You know, having just had some, I wouldn’t say it sucks. It’s just not Handles.
Me: That’s a relief! I’m working from home today, so I may just have to go to handles.
#127: Lucky YOU!! Jealous.
Later that night, I told Zoe that he’d texted me within 24 hours. “Someone was thinking about me,” I said.
“Was there anything more?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Zoe was adjusting to the peculiar mating habits of New York men—in particular, their tendency to disappear—so she wasn’t feeling particularly generous.
“I don’t understand these men,” she said. “I was at Jerry’s store yesterday telling the same thing to him and a woman walked by and said, ‘Welcome to New York.’ It’s like as soon as you show you’re interested, they disappear or say they just want to be friends. In Europe, if someone wants to know, they want to know. They don’t just suddenly change their mind. And if they do, they tell you. They don’t just go silent. I just don’t understand.”
“Welcome to my world,” I said.
Naturally, five days passed and there was nothing more from #127.
On Saturday, Zoe and I went for self-serve, so I texted him a photo of my melting, chocolate, topping-heavy concoction. A few hours later, back at home, he texted me back.
#127: YUM. I need some too. What flavors did you get?
Me: Cookies and cream and cheesecake. Although I ate the cheesecake while I was waiting in line.
#127: Hahaha. Bad girl, Tara. I’d probably do the same thing. Nice toppings, btw.
Me: Thanks. I try. And then I had another fro-yo down the street. Peach. It was one of those days.
#127: Wow, you’re hardcore with the fro-yo. Have you been to strawberry fields yet?
Um, didn’t he know it was his job to ask me to go with him? I played along.
Me: Not yet. (three unhappy faces with tears)
#127: Why the tears?
I threw my phone down on the sofa, got up and walked to the bathroom saying, “I’m so tired of these men. Can’t they take a fucking hint?”
Zoe calmed me down. “Maybe he thinks you’re out of his league and too pretty for him, so he’s just trying to make sure where you’re at.”
“I’m pretty?”
“Down, princess.”
I texted him back: Because I haven’t been to that one.
#127: We should meet up and go at lunch someday.
Ah, there it was.
Me: That’s a fabulous idea.
#127: Hahaha. Yeah I think it would too. Let me know when you’re not working from home.
Seeing as my working from home depended almost exclusively on how sick I was of coming up with outfits each morning, there was no need to put it off.
Me: In that case, that would be Monday.
Monday it was.
Signs of Hope: He was slow on the uptake, but he did eventually take things up.
Red Flags: I want someone who just gets in there and claims me. Is that unrealistic? Because this guy doesn't seem like a guy who stakes a claim.
Turning Point: When he FINALLY asked if I wanted to go for fro-yo.
Diagnosis: For him: Is he just a patient guy? Does he like to take his time with new relationships? His seeming abundance of exes says otherwise. Or, is he unavailable?
For me: Am I too impatient? Demanding? Maybe I need to give a little more. Act more interested. Be less expectant.
First Impression: “Of course, the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
Second Impression: “Is he gay?”
What Happened: To rewind a bit, in June, on the emotional roller coaster of a day when #126 and I flirtatiously texted (he likes me!) and then I met him in the park only to find he had company (he doesn’t like me!), after which he called to see if I wanted to go to a movie with them (he likes me!), while they all went to that movie, I went to a Sunday night gathering of likeminded downtowners (maybe he thinks I don't like him!). When I got to the gathering, I scanned the room, as I do, and spied #127 a few rows over. He was sitting next to a girl. “Of course,” I thought, “the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
On my way home, I ran into the two of them on 2nd Avenue. #127 recognized me instantly and seemed happy to see me (he likes me!). But then, when he spoke, he had a lilt that made me think he might be gay (he doesn’t like me!). They were both from Brooklyn—he lived in Williamsburg—and they were going for self-serve frozen yogurt at 16 Handles. As they tried to persuade me to go with them, I realized they weren’t together (he likes me!). But, still trying to wrap my head around #126, I wasn’t in the mood for a get-to-know-you yogurt with new people, so I went home (maybe he thinks I don't like him!).
Fast-forward a month to the near-present. The day I learned I wasn’t getting the apartment from #126, I was in need of a little perking up and remembered #127. I revisited the place I’d first seen him. When I walked in, I saw him across the room and then followed these next five steps:
1. Pretend you don’t see him.
2. Wander over to where he is as if you’re trying to figure out where to sit.
3. Sit down immediately behind him.
4. When he turns around and says, “Hey!” act surprised.
5. As if it hadn’t been your plan all along, get up and sit down next to him, saying, “Oh…well…I’ll just sit next to you.”
After the show, we turned to each other and talk, naturally, turned to self-serve fro-yo. “There’s a new place down where I work,” he said. “Not as good as 16 Handles but passable.”
“Where’s that?” We lingered at the front of the room as everyone filtered out past us.
“The financial district. On Fulton.”
“Oh, that’s where I work,” I said. “But I’m closer to South Street Seaport.” An obvious first date was percolating. I asked about the girl from the month before. He said he’d heard she’d moved to California and then described the events leading up to how he met her.
“She was friends with an ex-girlfriend of mine,” he said, fidgeting at the mention of his ex. “…but that was nothing, really not much of an important relationship…not an important relationship at all.” I asked about Williamsburg and told him I was thinking about moving there.
“I found my place through an ex-girlfriend…” he said, getting fidgety again, “…it was nothing, just a summer fling…” Every mention of an ex came with a disclaimer. I liked that. “Hey, I should get your number and then if I hear of anything…”
I gave him my number. The next day he texted me a photo of a Strawberry Fields cup of fro-yo.
Me: Ah, even though it sucks, you just had to do it.
#127: You know, having just had some, I wouldn’t say it sucks. It’s just not Handles.
Me: That’s a relief! I’m working from home today, so I may just have to go to handles.
#127: Lucky YOU!! Jealous.
Later that night, I told Zoe that he’d texted me within 24 hours. “Someone was thinking about me,” I said.
“Was there anything more?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Zoe was adjusting to the peculiar mating habits of New York men—in particular, their tendency to disappear—so she wasn’t feeling particularly generous.
“I don’t understand these men,” she said. “I was at Jerry’s store yesterday telling the same thing to him and a woman walked by and said, ‘Welcome to New York.’ It’s like as soon as you show you’re interested, they disappear or say they just want to be friends. In Europe, if someone wants to know, they want to know. They don’t just suddenly change their mind. And if they do, they tell you. They don’t just go silent. I just don’t understand.”
“Welcome to my world,” I said.
Naturally, five days passed and there was nothing more from #127.
On Saturday, Zoe and I went for self-serve, so I texted him a photo of my melting, chocolate, topping-heavy concoction. A few hours later, back at home, he texted me back.
#127: YUM. I need some too. What flavors did you get?
Me: Cookies and cream and cheesecake. Although I ate the cheesecake while I was waiting in line.
#127: Hahaha. Bad girl, Tara. I’d probably do the same thing. Nice toppings, btw.
Me: Thanks. I try. And then I had another fro-yo down the street. Peach. It was one of those days.
#127: Wow, you’re hardcore with the fro-yo. Have you been to strawberry fields yet?
Um, didn’t he know it was his job to ask me to go with him? I played along.
Me: Not yet. (three unhappy faces with tears)
#127: Why the tears?
I threw my phone down on the sofa, got up and walked to the bathroom saying, “I’m so tired of these men. Can’t they take a fucking hint?”
Zoe calmed me down. “Maybe he thinks you’re out of his league and too pretty for him, so he’s just trying to make sure where you’re at.”
“I’m pretty?”
“Down, princess.”
I texted him back: Because I haven’t been to that one.
#127: We should meet up and go at lunch someday.
Ah, there it was.
Me: That’s a fabulous idea.
#127: Hahaha. Yeah I think it would too. Let me know when you’re not working from home.
Seeing as my working from home depended almost exclusively on how sick I was of coming up with outfits each morning, there was no need to put it off.
Me: In that case, that would be Monday.
Monday it was.
Signs of Hope: He was slow on the uptake, but he did eventually take things up.
Red Flags: I want someone who just gets in there and claims me. Is that unrealistic? Because this guy doesn't seem like a guy who stakes a claim.
Turning Point: When he FINALLY asked if I wanted to go for fro-yo.
Diagnosis: For him: Is he just a patient guy? Does he like to take his time with new relationships? His seeming abundance of exes says otherwise. Or, is he unavailable?
For me: Am I too impatient? Demanding? Maybe I need to give a little more. Act more interested. Be less expectant.
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