Mr. Unavailable #185: A Downward Trend

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas, Slow and Steady..., An Upward Trend and Be Mine for the background on this one.

We girls don’t like to share the bad stuff about the guys we’re dating until things are already clearly headed downhill. Such was the case with #185. A few things I may have failed to mention: 

• He never complimented me but wasn’t shy about saying if he thought someone else was pretty (which means I now have a resentment against Anne Hathaway). 
• He was always bringing up his last ex-girlfriend. The one from two years ago. And other ex-girlfriends. And ex-crushes. 
• He liked stupid jokes (When we saw Argo, he thought the joke “Argo fuck yourself” was hilarious).
• When we kissed, well, while it had definitely improved from the very beginning, but more often than not, he’d lose focus and I’d be left having to work my way around his wayward technique. 
• He not only lived a five-minute walk from his parents, but, up until six months before, he’d been living with them.

Date #15: He met me downtown where I was hanging out with Eva. He didn't know it, but she’d rearranged her schedule to meet him. While I was in the bathroom at the cafe, he’d told her “Blah blah blah… now that I’m dating Tara…blah blah blah.” We thought that was significant. Still, I wanted more.

We took the bus uptown and went to dinner at Yerba Buena, on Kevin’s recommendation. It was much fancier than I thought it’d be, so I just ordered a couple of appetizers. Somehow, during dinner, he began talking about his last ex-girlfriend. The one from two years ago. He felt bad for hurting her, he said. He began to tear up as he conducted his own rhetorical conversation. “Did I love her? Yes. Am I grateful for everything she did for me? Yes. Do I think we were meant to be together? No.”

As he spoke, I went far, far away, to a safer place. He asked for the check and said, “We’re going to have to take a break on these dinners now that I’m going to have to deal with some major dental bills.” I got up, went to the bathroom and searched for some kind of internal restart button. One thought ran over and over in my head: He’s telling me about how he loved her and I have no idea how he feels about me.

As I walked him to the subway later, I hadn’t fully come back from my safe place. “Are you OK?” he asked.

“I’m just tired,” I said.

That night, a two-hour phone conversation with Eva convened. It involved yelling, tears, some minor reprimanding (“You don’t even know how you feel about him,” Eva said, rightly) and a decision. In the spirit of being the change I wanted to see, instead of being needy and demanding, which was how I was feeling, I chose to be generous. Right or wrong, I was doing it for me not him.

Date #16: I emailed him regarding our Friday-scheduled date: 

“I was thinking about tomorrow and considering wooing you with one of three options:

1. Gangster Night: Dinner at the American Prohibition place followed by a mafia flick.

2. La Lumiere du Soir: Bistro dinner with music--at the same time.

3. Summertime in February: We close all my windows, turn up the heat and pretend it's July—with tropical takeout, fruity drinks and a DVD summer classic.”

He wrote back, opting for Gangster Night and saying he had a terrible night sleep (insert foreshadowing here).

That Friday, I dressed in mafia mistress red and we headed to Commerce in the West Village. We ran into a couple of my friends en route. As I spoke to one, I overheard the other saying to #185, “Tara looks gorgeous. Doesn’t she look gorgeous?” I heard him agree. But, later, he didn’t repeat it to me.

Instead, during dinner, he began telling me what felt like a needless story about running into a guy in his office on his way to meet me. And then he said, “I told the guy I was headed to the East Village because I was staying at my girlfriend’s tonight.”

My girlfriend’s tonight… relief washed over me. I was his girlfriend. Back at my place, we had a steamy make-out session on my sofa, but, when we moved to the bedroom, he needed a break. “I’m all in my head,” he said. “I haven’t done this in two years.”

“You haven’t? Wow, I feel special,” I said.

“You are special.”

Signs of Hope: The next night, when I met up with Eva at a party in Greenpoint, I was glowing. “Guess what?” I told her how he casually referred to me as his girlfriend. She screamed and jumped up and down.

Red Flags: The morning after he told me I was special, we had a sexless, lazy loll, brunched at Yaffa Café and returned to my place. He was agitated. “I missed the 3 o’clock train,” he said. He paced across my bedroom and slumped on the desk chair. “I’m not going to get home until after 4. I feel like my whole weekend is gone,” he said. It was only Saturday. I felt less special.

Turning Point: There would have been a turning point had I let myself recognize what was happening.

Diagnosis: For me: I’m so wrapped up in the idea of being someone’s girlfriend, I’m ignoring all the red flags.

For him: He’s so wrapped up in his past, maybe he’s incapable of moving forward.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Be Mine

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas, Slow and Steady... and An Upward Trend for the background on this one.

I forget when I first realized that this would be the first time in 17 years that I’d be dating someone during Valentine’s season. It probably occurred to me one day toward the end of January while wandering through Duane Reade. I happened upon the seasonal aisle and, spotting all the V-Day candy, my heart reflexively began to sink. And then my brain kicked in, remembering #185. What a relief.

Valentine’s week was jammed-packed. I’d bought tickets for the Westminster Dog Show and, when #185 balked at going, I invited Nora. At Madison Square Garden, Nora's rebel side kicked in and we sneaked down during the Star Spangled Banner, slipping past a distracted, overly patriotic guard, to be closer to the action. We gorged ourselves on frozen yogurt sundaes and provided our own running commentary. We had mixed feelings when the black Affenpinscher, Banana Joe, from the Toy category, won. We’d been rooting for the St. Bernard. But Banana Joe looked so happy, he won us over…but I digress…

Although I had Valentine’s plans with #185—he’d asked if I wanted to come to his place in Jersey and he’d make me dinner—they didn’t actually fall on Valentine’s Day. That was fine because, to me, that wasn’t the point. Merely to lay claim to a person of the gender to which I was sexually attracted during Valentine’s season was the point.

So, on Valentine’s Day proper, I met up with Eva and headed to a party in Bushwick hosted by a pair of swingers. The female member of the couple was a burlesque dancer and the male member was a librarian. In modern parlance, that meant he was a UX specialist for design firms and ad agencies. And possibly bisexual.

Eva had her eye on a skinny, tattooed guy in a dirty white T-shirt. We couldn’t tell if he was gay or straight. And then Eva’s most recent inappropriate crush arrived, looking like he’d been hit by a bus. Actually, he’d fallen out of a cab and had nearly destroyed his ankle. He was walking with a cane and had huge dark circles under his eyes. I left them at about midnight but texted Eva later.

Me: Did you meet the guy?

Eva: Yes. Although he was shrooming.

Me: So was he gay or straight?

Eva: Both.

Me: Of course.

The next day, I met #185 in the Chase vestibule at Penn Station. He barely said hello and rushed us toward the trains.

“Hi,” I said. “Are we running late?”

“Oh, yeah, we really need to catch the next train,” he said.

When we got to his place, things became much more Valentine-y. A hot make-out session standing in front of his kitchen preceded him making me dinner. As he prepared the chicken breasts, I looked around. He had two plastic keychain passes to Equinox gym hanging from his refrigerator.

“What are those Equinox things on your refrigerator?”

“I joined Equinox about a month ago.”

“Have you gone yet?”

“No,” he said.

I laughed.

He turned around, his hands greasy with chicken liquids, and said, “Why does everyone think that’s so funny?”

I caught myself mid-smile and realized he was serious.

“It’s not you,” I said. “It’s that clichéd thing where people get gym memberships and then never use them.”

“Do I not look like someone who would go to the gym?”

My half smile turned to a look of astonishment. “Are you seriously mad?” I asked.

Clearly, he was the one who thought he didn’t look like someone who would go to the gym.

“I just don’t understand why people laugh when I say that,” he said.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” I said.

We let it drop and he finished making dinner.

I could tell he was still agitated. He didn’t have a kitchen table, so he began rearranging his furniture. His coffee table became the dining table and he placed a stool on one side and a taller chair on the other. He gave me the chair.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a proper setup for dinner,” he said.

“It’s OK. You’ve seen my apartment. I don’t even have a coffee table or any chairs. I have to eat on my sofa.”

He took a breath. “I’m sorry about before,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m so sensitive about it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s OK.” A little while later, he started on a rant against the church.

“Sorry, I don’t even know what your stand is on religion,” he said, without asking what my stand on religion was.

Maybe he was trying to push me away.

After dinner, I got out the Crumbs cupcakes I’d bought for dessert and gave him a Valentine I’d been working on all week. I’d spent $45 in art supplies to make it. Buying a card would have been a lot cheaper, yes, but this had that all-important homemade appeal. Shaped like a heart, his name was on the outside and, inside, I’d fashioned the words “Be Mine” out of heart-shaped glitter. He seemed touched.

We watched a movie, messed around without actually doing it and went to sleep. The next morning, we lingered over breakfast, talking, and he gave me a package of chocolate covered pretzels (that I think he’d gotten for me as a Valentine’s gift although it wasn’t clear) and I caught a noon train because his car was still on the fritz. “I’ll drive you home next time,” he said.

Signs of Hope: He made me dinner.

Red Flags: His sudden anger. That, and we didn’t actually do it.

Turning Point: When I asked him about his gym membership. I was getting to know him, that's for sure.

Diagnosis: As the train left the station, I wasn’t sure if we were getting closer or getting stuck.

Mr. Unavailable #185: An Upward Trend

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas and Slow and Steady... for the background on this one.

“See, you don’t even know if you like him!” This was Kevin talking. He was giving me shit. For freaking out so much about whether or not #185 liked me. And then, like what happened on the ice-skating date, me doing a 180 and not feeling a whole lot of like for #185.

It was exhausting, really. All the second-guessing I was doing. I don’t recommend it.

The next few dates, however, demonstrated a definite emotional uptick for both me and #185. There were a couple of hiccups, of course, but there was a definite upward trend.

Date #9: Our first movie date, to see Argo. He’d already gotten the tickets by the time I showed up and was browsing clothes in a thrift store across the street. When I walked into the thrift store, he lit up, clearly excited to see me. And I was excited to see him.

Date #10: My first trip to his place in Jersey. He was late, so we missed the train he’d wanted to get. We stood in front of the Departures board not touching each other. I wanted to hug him, hold him, something, but something else told me not to. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe I was nervous. Finally, on the train, he put his hand on my leg and I leaned my head on his shoulder. We got burgers at a local spot in town and then picked up ice cream on our way back to his place, which was a five-minute walk from his parents’ place. There was a weird distance at times, but I figured that was normal for two people getting to know each other. We messed around that night and then the next day I took a train back into the city. “I would have driven you back but my car needs to go to the shop,” he said.

Date #11: #185 texted during the workday: “Do you still want to do take-in and movie at your place or something more special?” I opted for something more special. He came over and we walked across town to Fig and Olive, an expansive but still urban-feeling restaurant in the Meatpacking District. Somehow, on the walk over, we started talking about writing.

“Yeah,” I said. “You know how sometimes I say I’m going to The Bean to do some writing?”

“I meant to ask you about that,” he said.

“Well, I’m working on a book. D’you wanna know what it’s called?”

I held my breath as he said he did.

“Me and Mister Unavailable”

I held my breath again.

“Oh, well, that’s kind of my problem, too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. He could have been admitting he was the unavailable one. But he wasn’t.

“I end up with unavailable women.”

I was surprised. Pleasantly. There was silence again and I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking: Which one of us is going to be the unavailable one in the end?

I hoped that mutual availability would prevail, but, if this was to be over, that, for once, the unavailable one would be me.

Dinner was actually quite lovely. I noticed a shift happening. Some sort of deepening, or opening up. Melancholia had seeped in by the time we parted ways at the subway station.

Date #12: We’d made plans for Friday but because of a blizzard, and because he was a responsible adult, he opted to go straight home rather than risk the possibility of getting “stuck” in the city if he’d stayed for our date. My sense of codependence got ruffled, but deep down, I knew it was for the best. We met up on Sunday instead, when I treated him to Guy-I’m-Dating Appreciation Day. He’d been shelling out for all of our previous dates, so I figured it was time for me to ante up. We met up at the International Center for Photography and cuddled in front of the Weegees.

Afterward, we went to see The Master and were so early that we killed time by holding each other close in the foyer of the theater lobby. Pheromones were released, heartbeats were felt. I asked if he had plans for the summer.

“Not really. I’m not much of a planner. I mean, I used to go down to a rented house on the Jersey Shore, but my ex-girlfriend always organized it, so it was all of her friends. I don’t really have any friends.”

“You only need a few good ones,” I said. “And you have your brothers.” He’d previously told me that he and his brothers had an ESP-like closeness.

“I suppose,” he said. We did Thai food afterward, choosing a New York magazine recommended-place called Zabb Elee, which must mean, “The food is so spicy, you can’t even eat it.”

He was sweet about the minor fiasco. “Want to go somewhere else?” he asked. “No, it’s fine,” I said. Back at my place, we made out for a while. He didn’t want to go home. “What time is your train?” I asked.

I draped myself over him as he checked his phone. He sighed. “It looks like I have to be going right about now.”

“I feel like the train is my competition. You’re always running off to get it.”

“I know,” he said sadly. We kissed until the very last second he had to be out the door.

Because he’d left in such a hurry, he’d left his phone behind. I emailed him to let him know. He wrote back: “Yeah, I realized it just as the F was pulling away from the station. What do you say to a dinner date tomorrow? If you have plans I can zip up to your office during lunch or just meet right after work. I'm easy. Thanks again for tonight!”

Date #13: It was raining, again, when we met up at a pizza place on 12^th street in the Village. There was electricity in the air. The waiter sat us at a gigantic table. “You feel so far away from me,” he said. It felt like we were this close to sitting on the same side of the table, but restraint triumphed. There were children one table over. He had to catch an early train and, again, the impending separation felt painful. We put it off as long as we could, holding each other in front of the restaurant under some scaffolding and then again for a few minutes under his umbrella in Union Square after I offered to walk him there. Leaving him, I felt sad. A sadness so full it bordered on joy.

Signs of Hope: There were many feelings happening.

Red Flags: He doesn’t really have any friends? And he lives so close to his parents.

Turning Point: A definite upward trend occurred somewhere in the vicinity of dates 12 and 13.

Diagnosis: Now the question is: Will one of us prove to be unavailable, will this end for a real reason or will this last?

Mr. Unavailable #185: Slow and Steady Wins the Race, and Other Benefits

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections and Cheap Empanadas for the background on this one.

Over the next few dates, I’d like to say I didn’t go crazy again. Sadly, that was not the case. Some days I was fine, some days I was not. Before date #5, I texted Kevin.

Me: I’m depressed, I can feel it slipping away between my fingers.

I was referring to my sanity.

Kevin: Hey, Crazy. You okay. Okayish?

Me: You were unavailable, so I took Eva’s advice. I don’t feel good. I may need serious triage tomorrow in the form of a phone consultation. I also may be smoking a pack of cigarettes on top of my bronchitis. Is that a bad idea?

Eva’s advice had been thusly: #185 was probably waiting for me to show I liked him and reciprocate, she said, so I needed to let him know that I would reciprocate. She suggested an email. This is the same Eva who borderline-stalks all of her crushes. If she weren’t so cute, she’d be on the receiving end of multiple restraining orders. I followed her advice and the email went like this:

Hi, You.
 I had a great time, too. I was really happy that you came over. Maybe you can tell already, but I'm just terrible at. this. stuff. All that is to say that, at the risk of sounding corny, I really like you. And, although I haven't taken it's temperature, I'm pretty sure your voice can melt butter. Don't know if I mentioned it, but I possess the same melting point as butter. So, now, when do I get to see you again?

His reaction:

Aw, shoot, you've got me acting all shy and blushed first thing in the morning. To be honest, I can't really can't tell you are terrible at this stuff. In fact, I don't think you are. Also, I am happy to melt you as long as you reconstitute so we can do it again.
 What do you say we do Friday night? 

While it went well, I was left feeling like it wasn’t necessary for me to do that. Maybe I was pushing things. I wanted to take it slow, so why put feelings on the line? Or maybe I just felt exposed. Vulnerable. Yucky.

Fortunately, the next few dates cruised along in slow gear.

Date #5: We met in Soho and went to an Italian place for dinner, eating at the bar—my new favorite thing because we got to sit close—then we went to the Little Cupcake Shop for cake and then, instead of running off to catch his train, he walked me home.

Date #6: We met up at the New Museum and hugged, deeply, any spare moment we could. We grabbed burgers at Bareburger, warming up from being out in the cold, and he came over for ice cream and a make-out session.

Date #7: We met for Thai food in the West Village after work. I even brought him a fancy coffee from Blue Bottle to be a little more give than take. We hit Café Anjelique for dessert and he caught an early train home.

After date #7, I went nuts. I did the math. Early train home+a certain tone of distance in his last few emails+he mentioned he had Friday dinner plans on Wednesday but then said nothing again about them=He had a Friday night date with another woman.

I spent that Friday evening having a meltdown at a gallery opening with Eva. Fortunately, the art was terrible and the gallery was filled with a bunch of burnouts stuck in 1995, so, when a fight broke out, I started to feel better. Someone threw a beer bottle that shattered the front door of the gallery and my own aggression found a blessed outlet.

By the time Sunday rolled around, I was feeling more composed. I suggested ice skating. “Yeah, let’s do that,” he said he said over the phone. He asked if I wanted to meet him at Penn Station. I agreed, annoyed. I called Kevin on my way to meet him.

“He wants me to meet him at Penn Station because he can’t be bothered to come down and pick me up,” I said.

“Um, I think he wants you to meet him so he can see you sooner,” Kevin said. “He wants to see you sooner.” I hadn’t thought of that.

We met up in the Chase Bank vestibule at Penn Station and headed to Waldman Rink in Central Park, lining up at the admissions booth. It turned out #185 had never ice skated before. Fortunately, he was more than game. As he splashed out about $70 for admission and skate rental for both of us, I draped myself lovingly around him. 

We put our skates on and slid slowly onto the rink. He not only had the coordination of a five-year-old but the gusto, too. He barreled around the rink in a prolonged controlled fall, smiling and laughing the whole time. And when he did fall, he got right back up again. He even made friends with the kids in the rink.

“Are you OK?” one seven-year-old girl asked him. “How many times did you fall?” Clearly, she knew how to spot someone on her level.

“Four,” he said.

“Oh, I’ve fallen like 20 times,” she said, unimpressed.

“See,” he said to me, “me and kids are like this.” He pointed two fingers at his own eyes and then turned them toward mine. In other words, he was saying, he knew they were on the same level, too.

Though I was impressed with how intrepid he was, that wasn’t translating into a desire to tear his clothes off. He was more dorky than adorable as he wobbled around at around 6’5” in his skates, his face in full Wallace-and-Gromit ecstasy.

Maybe it was just a phase and my mild repulsion would fade. I took a few steady solo laps around the rink and we de-skated shortly thereafter. We headed back down to the East Village for dinner at Frank’s and, sitting across from him, warming up, having food in front of us, watching him lean his fist on his leg in that way that inexplicably turned me on, attraction returned. We talked about how neither one of us was up on our Oscar movie watching, specifically Argo and The Master.

“Want to go on Wednesday?” he asked. I smiled. I don’t know why it always stuns me when a guy I’m dating suggests another date.

“That sounds great,” I said.

Signs of Hope: The dates keep coming.

Red Flags: 1. Occasionally, my interest flags. At least I knew enough to know it’s usually a passing thing. 2. This isn’t the first time he’s indicated he and kids are on the same level.

Turning Point: Dinner at Frank’s.

Diagnosis: Slow and steady not only wins the race but also falls down less.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Cheap Empanadas

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille and Imperfections for the background on this one.

Two or three dates into any dating situation, me going insane is pretty much par for the course. Somehow, over the Saturday and Sunday between dates with #185, my brain persuaded me that he was losing interest, or freaking out and backing away, or deciding that he didn’t want to splurge for yet another date.

This was, of course, more a reflection of my own self-worth and freaked-out-ness. But I didn’t know that yet and nothing could have convinced me he was thinking otherwise. Even the email he sent me on Monday—parsed and diagrammed and subjectively translated below—was unable to quell me.

Hey, [Not a more affectionate “Hey You.” This meant he was keeping his distance.]
How is the pajama life? Are you in the middle of nap #1 right now? [Usually much more clever than that, he was feeling lackluster about me.] 

So I was thinking of going to this empanadas bar in the east village...a place i went several years ago and loved. It's really small and if it's packed people are sitting on top of you...so if we are not feeling it I'm sure we can find something that suits us a bit better. [A cheap empanadas bar? Where people will be on top of us? Where he probably went “several years ago” "with a girlfriend." He was going to make swift work of the end in a safe, crowded setting without making a big monetary investment.]

What do you think? [Such hesitance showed he was tippy-toeing around me—you know, because hell hath no fury…]

I arrived at the empanadas place at the appointed time and not only was he not there, but the place was closed for renovations. I waited out front. I was trying to appear collected but seemed to be having trouble normalizing my breathing. Then I saw him approaching.

“It’s closed,” I croaked at him breathlessly as the gap between us closed.

“Yeah, this wasn’t the place I was thinking of, so I was just walking up and down the street to see if I could find it. No luck,” he said. We embraced and pecked each other as if we were new to the concepts of hugging and kissing.

“Where should we go?” he said. I noticed he had no plan B. And he didn’t try to hold my hand or even link arms.

“We could just go to Café Mogador,” I said. Café Mogador, the location of many-a-failed-relationship dates. When we got there, he chose a table in the middle of the room, right out in the open, a very public spot if there were to be, for example, a scene. He asked me to hang his coat up for him behind my seat where I’d just hung mine. Wow, he really has stopped putting in any effort, I thought.

I ordered one of the more expensive entrees from the specials menu.

“So, how was your weekend?” I asked, keeping my hands in my lap. He leaned his fist on his leg and spoke, his voice casting its spell in person for the first time. And the last time, I thought. I guess he’s going to wait until after we eat. Now that he was about to become unavailable to me, he seemed more attractive, more manly. 

We ate and talked and I began to wonder if I might be wrong. I reached my hand out to my water glass and he touched it. And then he held it.

Ohhhhhhh, I am crazy.

Finally, I began to relax.

After we ate, he said, “I thought we might go get a coffee. There’s The Bean across the street.”

“Oh, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over for coffee or tea at my place.”

“Let’s go,” he said, and then, in what seemed like one movement, he paid the bill, got out of his seat and took both of our coats off of the wall.

The next day, I texted Kevin, who’d been kept apprised of my pre-date freak-out.

Me: I got my mojo back. Phew. That was scary for a second.

Kevin: Oh no!!!

Me: Wait. Why oh no?

Kevin: How much mojo are we talking?

Me: Medium?

Kevin: Ohhhh! Okay.

Me: Thank god he’s goofy looking.

Signs of Hope: Let me explain that last text: It’s good that I find him goofy looking because that tempers my crazy.

Red Flags: There’s always a chance my intuition may not be entirely out of whack.

Turning Point: When I asked if he wanted to come back to my place for coffee.

Diagnosis: Despite what my head tells me, everything is turning out just fine.