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.
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