Part of the goal of this "project" is to break whatever cycle I have when it comes to men. I want to get over my judgmental shit, you know, the silly ideas about "the relationship I need" that I have in my naive mind. Generally, I tend to go for neurotic artsy types, the architects and photographers who act as if they have some omniscient, god-like perspective on the world, but take out their insecurities and undiagnosed OCD on me. They're always terrible communicators, so I always do the legwork in that department and that drives me up a freaking wall because it makes the relationship about power (which I hate), and then on top of it, they have that power (which I hate even more).
So in my drunk messaging spree of last week, I emailed, of all people, a contractor-in-training. He was the guy I winked at (and you know how slutty I find okcupid winking). The next day, I regretted it, but followed through because who knows, maybe me-after-too-much-wine knows more than sober-me. He wrote me back a short email about his dog and tacos (I apparently am going for a Mexican-food based niche audience), and (not so) casually mentioned that because I was new to the area that he would love to introduce me to good sushi in West Philly. This put me off. It was too eager for a normal person. He had to have something wrong with him. A giant wart on his nose. Missing toes. A twitch. Something.
I know the Beatles' tune "Happiness is a Warm Gun" is about heroine, but it's so ecstatically sexed up. And as much as it's not there, I've always made the association between that song and a dude who prematurely comes (I know, where is my head at). For me, the correlation is the "warm gun" part of the title: a guy shoots his wad. There's no drawn out, teasing foreplay, no time, no attention, no built-up longing. Just: splat/bang. Done.
When he mentioned going out to sushi, that was a splat/bang. No excitement, no wondering if he found me attractive, no work. But I went with it for the sake of the project. I avoided the suggestion all together, talked about other things like dogs (he adopted one 5 years back), living in Philly, being an English major (he was one too) and the disenchantment of the degree that comes after you get into the working world. All very okcupid-second-message.
He wrote me back a longish message answering all of the gettingtoknowyou questions I posed, and at the end, just said what he needed to say: let's have coffee, I'm not freaked out by you, and I think we could get along. Shortest message chain ever. And for the sake of the project, I said yes. Now, this was all happening at time I was planning Date #2 with Q, and to be frank, my attention was diverted. Date #3 was a second thought, really, and probably unfairly. He called me while I was at my mom's house, and after I made my date with Q for Monday, I decided to front load the week (as it were) and make my date with W.G. for Tuesday after work.
This was a good idea in theory, but tactically, not so much; this dating stuff knocks the wind out of me. I was exhausted on Tuesday from the date on Monday, had an awful day at work, and as I was walking up to Rittenhouse from Old City, was so atypically indifferent. I usually have to talk myself down before these things, repeat the mantra of, "This is a blip, an inconsequential blip," and "you are an attractive, smart person who deserves someone worth it," but with this one, I just walked. Partially, I know I was disappointed that there wasn't a spark from the night before, and part of me was judging him and anticipating more disappointment. I mean, if I couldn't hit it off with a guy who was, on paper, perfect for me, what would make a guy who was in a completely separate world from me appealing? Plus, I had Danielle's voice in the back of my head saying, "You're so much cuter than him." Which, objectively speaking, was true. But I'm cuter than a lot of the guys I've gone for, and that hasn't stopped me, so why should it now? The thing is, once I'm attracted, your attractiveness is, in a way, a non-issue, because it's moved from the realm of the objective into the realm of the subjective.
In this complacent mood I was in, I decided to be five minutes late. I sat in the park, changed out of my New Balance mom-sneakers that I use to walk back and forth to work and put on my black ballet flats. I still looked a bit post-9to5soulsucked, but not awful. At 6:04, I walked to La Colombe (which I think has become my first date go-to coffee shop; it's close enough to my house that I can walk home in the dark without feeling like I should have taken the bus, but far enough away that a creepy guy won't be able to figure out where I live), and low an behold, he had the same idea that I had, and we met at the door, coming from different directions.
We introduced ourselves, went for the hand shake. He's a tall guy, apathetic looking, red-head (a ginga, as my sister Amy would call him), has a receding hairline (this is a negative of going for older guys, I think- though he was only 27, so not that much older), and wore plaid (which I had neither positive nor negative feelings about). I was not in ideal first date form- the day really had kicked my ass, and those sort of obscure but interesting and telling questions that I usually ask when I first meet someone weren't coming. I was just too tired to be attentive. But in a way, it worked for the moment. He's a laid-back kind of guy, not unmotivated, but definitely not a go-getter either. Our chat was generic: pop culture, work, a general past history- typical stuff and nothing too offensive.
We cut the thing short at 7, and as we were leaving, we hugged goodbye, and he asked if I would be up for grabbing dinner sometime. I said yes, though I didn't know if that was something he was just saying to end the date on an up note, or if it was his actual intention. I didn't really care at that point. I guess he meant it though, because he called last night. I'm still mulling over whether or not I want to call him back.
The thing is, it wasn't bad. But I think you would have to be a total jerk to have a bad date with me (a womanizer/misogynist, a racist, a republican, etc). When I try, I can have genuine conversations with anyone, and I'm told that's not a common trait. Really, what I need is a blowmymind, awesome date, because then I would have a bar to hold these guys up to. And I know, I'm not supposed to look outside of myself, blahblahblah, but when the last couple of guys I've even remotely liked have been a Catholic-guilt-ridden, probable homosexual mama's boy and a guy ten years older than me who doesn't know what he wants (and kisses like a fish), well, you at least understand my desire for the bar.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Date #2: Q
Monday night, I came home, drank a screwdriver (after half a bottle of Cote du Rhone) and drunkenly sang the Jaws theme song to Danielle while lying in her bed. That is where this evening took me. All I have to say is that I’m glad I took that 20-year-old bottle of vodka from my mom’s house this weekend.
Not that the date went badly. It was just...white and from Connecticut, in the most typical of ways.
I'll start from the beginning: I have the bad habit of going on okcupid after I've had a couple of drinks. Mostly, I've stopped that now because I realize that I'm no longer where I was a year and a half ago (able to write coherent, engaging sentences while mildly buzzed- hell, I wrote most of my finals with a beer in hand). But last week, oh last week. I’m still experiencing the perpetuation of last week’s idiocy into this this week. I came home after a hard day, had three over-sized glasses of wine, signed in and began browsing. In total, I think I wrote 4 messages that night and one wink (and normally, I never wink- I think it’s sort of slutty and superficial). The next night, I received responses to 4 of the 5, and became particularly intrigued by this guy who 1) was a good writer, 2) was witty, 3) likes using food as a vehicle for condiments, and 4) studied aborad in Rennes (where I did) and taught as an assistant in Brittany.
I should mention: I’ve very recently moved to Philly (I’ve been here for a little more than 3 months), but I came home from France only for a month before relocating, and that month was filled with traveling and interviews and seeing friends- general busy-ness. Sufficed to say:the reverse culture shock thing that is supposed to happen, and in a way, I think is healthy and good and sparks a necessary critical reaction, did not due to the quick pace of that month. Or at least, did not happen all at once. I get pangs of nostalgia every now and again, and hopeful, optimistic ideas about maybe going back (which is a bit silly, because as good as it was, it was a circumstantial good. I think Philly is where I’m supposed to be for the next couple of years).
When these shared experiences cropped up, I was, well, I was excited as I could have been about this sort of a thing. We reminisced over Rennes and what a great place it was to study in: the bars in Saint Anne, drinking bottles of wine in the Republique Garmond, and the “Vive la Commune” painted on building B on Rennes II’s campus. It was this oddly intimate messaging about silly things that are no secret if you’ve lived in the town; but no one I know has lived in the town, and so these minor details that give Rennes its charm became this exciting secret between the two of us.
It was all very sexy and fantasy-inducing. And if I have learned anything within the past year, it is to nip fantasies in the butt before they become better than the real thing. Which I think is a danger of online dating. As an aside: from the start of signing up for okcupid, I was messaging back and forth with a guy I nicknamed Burrito Man. We had pretty good chats, nothing mind-blowing, but nonetheless intriguing. I have no problem making the first “let’s go out for coffee” move, and so I did this, you know, somehow tying it into a topic that we were covering. At this point, I want to say we’d accumulated about 12 messages altogether. He wrote back that we would go out when he made it into the city in a couple of weeks (he lives 30 minutes away). And then proceeded to write me a huge email about whatever, just continuing the topical conversation we’d been having. By no means am I a dating expert, but time equals interest in all facets of life. And if you’re writing a six paragraph message, that’s at least 20 minutes (30 or 40 at the speed that I write). I don’t think it was wrong to assume this guy was into me. A week went by, he was still responding (at length and quickly) to my emails, but no dice on the going out. He just avoided it, or skidded over it. I mentioned it again. This time, he avoided the suggestion entirely, but still wrote me a huge message. So I waited a couple of days, remembering what my wise friend Brown told me about online dating: “4 messages, Sarah. Back and forth. That’s it.” I’m not quite that quick at the draw, but 8 altogether is my limit. I lose patience and interest. Plus, the idea of investing in a virtual relationship with no real payoff is not for me. So for the sake of honestly, I told Burrito Man exactly that: “I would like to grab a drink with you, and I hope this doesn’t discourage you, but I don’t have the attention span to do this for more than a week and a half. If you’d like to come into the city for some coffee or a drink, that’s great, but if not, best of luck.” Maybe I’m a bitch, but I hate leaving things like that hanging. And so I spelled it out. He’s yet to respond. I doubt he will. Further evidence that he is a pussy bitch and not for me in the first place.
I’m skeptical about getting caught up in long, in-depth email chains because expectations rise, and then this becomes a game of quality, not quantity. And online dating will never be that. And that is what I went into Monday’s date with. Jittery expectations. We decided to go out for wine in the name of France, and I gave him the option of a small dinner or wine bar. I think we were both so excited to meet each other that we went for the dinner, in retrospect, probably naive, but didn’t turn out awfully.
I left work on Monday at 5 on the nose, when it was raining and gross and generally frizzy. I stopped by the wine store (the place we went to, Audry Claire, is an amazing BYOB, and so I told him I’d bring the wine, taking it on faith that he would do dinner). I wore a good shirt, good dark jeans, some hippie jewelry, and black leather heeled booties; I looked like me, but more put together. And holy crap was I nervous. I actually spent the time that I had allotted for shower time laying on my bedroom floor meditating. And I never meditate. But I was freaking out. And it wasn’t a what if he’s repulsed by me sort of a thing, but a you idiot, why did you not go somewhere that wouldn’t take forever (see the previous post).
Eventually, 8pm rolls around, I’m running late (what else is new). I leave my apartment, which is 8 blocks away from Audrey Claire; I overestimated how quickly I could walk there, and more so, how quickly I could walk there in 3 inch heels. Not as quickly as I thought. Finally, I get there, a bit damp, and immediately, I see he is more nervous than I am. He was sitting at the window seat, and we had that awkward initial meet: do you hug, do you shake hands? You both know that you’re their because you found each others’ profile photos vaguely attractive, but no one actually wants to admit it because of the whole fear of rejection thing. It’s a very loaded situation. He goes for the safe approach: the hand shake. We sit, and I can tell pretty immediately that this bottle of wine is going to need to opened and consumed, if only to calm nerves.
Our conversation began with quotidian topics: the day, the job, etc.- he’s a computer engineer, graduated with an MA from Drexel, and likes his job working at an ESL software company creating programs to help foreigners learn English. And then the menus came. Now, I know the right thing to order on dates: date food. Nothing that will spill or splatter, something that is both easy and a bit sexy to eat, nothing that will destroy your breath, makes you look like a pig, or pose the risk of indigestion.
I don’t believe in date food. Is that bad? Bring on the spaghetti with marinara. Curry: please. Sweetly, Q asked what was good (I chose the restaurant), and what is good, unfortunately, are the 2 pounds of mussels in chunky-tomato and garlic sauce. Mussels are probably the ugliest food one can eat. They look like snot. Opaque, beige, large snot. And you need to use your hands in eating them. But they are one of my favorite foods, and Audrey Claire sort of rocks them. For $12. It’s an amazing deal. And being the agreeable guy that he was, we got mussels. And Gorgonzola flat bread. (If I’m going to break with convention, I’m going to really break with convention.)
We got some wine down, start talking about France, but to be perfectly honest, I cannot, for the life of me, remember the specifics. Because my attention was split between him, and noting what he was saying so I could ask him interesting, engaged questions, and thinking: I should be hitting it off with this guy, I should want to jump his bones, but I got nothing.
We finished dinner, delicious dinner, and we were the last people in the restaurant, just eating and talking until 10. When we left, we walked around for a bit so he could walk off a bit of wine before he drove back to the country. It was lovely, a great night, good talks, really, the ideal situation to have a first kiss. I didn’t even want one. He walked me to my door, and we hugged goodnight. On an Indian summer night with a warm breeze. Give me a break; I couldn’t have orchestrated the thing better. But I didn’t want him. The whole thing just killed my libido (hence the Jaws song upon entry into my house).
I’m trying to figure out why. I mean, there are two options. The optimistic one, the one I want to believe because this guy is good on paper, is that nerves, exhaustion, and the circumstances in general, put he and I off. The realistic one: chemistry takes less than a minute to gauge. Mostly, at least in the past,I know within 10 seconds if I’d like to see you naked. This guy? Nothing. And I wonder if it’s the online dating thing.
I’m thinking about the last guy I wanted to see naked (at least at the time). Truth be told, I didn’t want him immediately, it took an hour and a half or so until we started speaking and broke away from the group. And then I wanted him. And then I fantasized after the the night was over. But with this guy, I fantasized during the week before our date. The date itself undercut whatever prior hopes I had for the outcome.
He’s asked me out again, and I think I’ll go. Not to fill quotas, but because I would really like to like this guy.
Not that the date went badly. It was just...white and from Connecticut, in the most typical of ways.
I'll start from the beginning: I have the bad habit of going on okcupid after I've had a couple of drinks. Mostly, I've stopped that now because I realize that I'm no longer where I was a year and a half ago (able to write coherent, engaging sentences while mildly buzzed- hell, I wrote most of my finals with a beer in hand). But last week, oh last week. I’m still experiencing the perpetuation of last week’s idiocy into this this week. I came home after a hard day, had three over-sized glasses of wine, signed in and began browsing. In total, I think I wrote 4 messages that night and one wink (and normally, I never wink- I think it’s sort of slutty and superficial). The next night, I received responses to 4 of the 5, and became particularly intrigued by this guy who 1) was a good writer, 2) was witty, 3) likes using food as a vehicle for condiments, and 4) studied aborad in Rennes (where I did) and taught as an assistant in Brittany.
I should mention: I’ve very recently moved to Philly (I’ve been here for a little more than 3 months), but I came home from France only for a month before relocating, and that month was filled with traveling and interviews and seeing friends- general busy-ness. Sufficed to say:the reverse culture shock thing that is supposed to happen, and in a way, I think is healthy and good and sparks a necessary critical reaction, did not due to the quick pace of that month. Or at least, did not happen all at once. I get pangs of nostalgia every now and again, and hopeful, optimistic ideas about maybe going back (which is a bit silly, because as good as it was, it was a circumstantial good. I think Philly is where I’m supposed to be for the next couple of years).
When these shared experiences cropped up, I was, well, I was excited as I could have been about this sort of a thing. We reminisced over Rennes and what a great place it was to study in: the bars in Saint Anne, drinking bottles of wine in the Republique Garmond, and the “Vive la Commune” painted on building B on Rennes II’s campus. It was this oddly intimate messaging about silly things that are no secret if you’ve lived in the town; but no one I know has lived in the town, and so these minor details that give Rennes its charm became this exciting secret between the two of us.
It was all very sexy and fantasy-inducing. And if I have learned anything within the past year, it is to nip fantasies in the butt before they become better than the real thing. Which I think is a danger of online dating. As an aside: from the start of signing up for okcupid, I was messaging back and forth with a guy I nicknamed Burrito Man. We had pretty good chats, nothing mind-blowing, but nonetheless intriguing. I have no problem making the first “let’s go out for coffee” move, and so I did this, you know, somehow tying it into a topic that we were covering. At this point, I want to say we’d accumulated about 12 messages altogether. He wrote back that we would go out when he made it into the city in a couple of weeks (he lives 30 minutes away). And then proceeded to write me a huge email about whatever, just continuing the topical conversation we’d been having. By no means am I a dating expert, but time equals interest in all facets of life. And if you’re writing a six paragraph message, that’s at least 20 minutes (30 or 40 at the speed that I write). I don’t think it was wrong to assume this guy was into me. A week went by, he was still responding (at length and quickly) to my emails, but no dice on the going out. He just avoided it, or skidded over it. I mentioned it again. This time, he avoided the suggestion entirely, but still wrote me a huge message. So I waited a couple of days, remembering what my wise friend Brown told me about online dating: “4 messages, Sarah. Back and forth. That’s it.” I’m not quite that quick at the draw, but 8 altogether is my limit. I lose patience and interest. Plus, the idea of investing in a virtual relationship with no real payoff is not for me. So for the sake of honestly, I told Burrito Man exactly that: “I would like to grab a drink with you, and I hope this doesn’t discourage you, but I don’t have the attention span to do this for more than a week and a half. If you’d like to come into the city for some coffee or a drink, that’s great, but if not, best of luck.” Maybe I’m a bitch, but I hate leaving things like that hanging. And so I spelled it out. He’s yet to respond. I doubt he will. Further evidence that he is a pussy bitch and not for me in the first place.
I’m skeptical about getting caught up in long, in-depth email chains because expectations rise, and then this becomes a game of quality, not quantity. And online dating will never be that. And that is what I went into Monday’s date with. Jittery expectations. We decided to go out for wine in the name of France, and I gave him the option of a small dinner or wine bar. I think we were both so excited to meet each other that we went for the dinner, in retrospect, probably naive, but didn’t turn out awfully.
I left work on Monday at 5 on the nose, when it was raining and gross and generally frizzy. I stopped by the wine store (the place we went to, Audry Claire, is an amazing BYOB, and so I told him I’d bring the wine, taking it on faith that he would do dinner). I wore a good shirt, good dark jeans, some hippie jewelry, and black leather heeled booties; I looked like me, but more put together. And holy crap was I nervous. I actually spent the time that I had allotted for shower time laying on my bedroom floor meditating. And I never meditate. But I was freaking out. And it wasn’t a what if he’s repulsed by me sort of a thing, but a you idiot, why did you not go somewhere that wouldn’t take forever (see the previous post).
Eventually, 8pm rolls around, I’m running late (what else is new). I leave my apartment, which is 8 blocks away from Audrey Claire; I overestimated how quickly I could walk there, and more so, how quickly I could walk there in 3 inch heels. Not as quickly as I thought. Finally, I get there, a bit damp, and immediately, I see he is more nervous than I am. He was sitting at the window seat, and we had that awkward initial meet: do you hug, do you shake hands? You both know that you’re their because you found each others’ profile photos vaguely attractive, but no one actually wants to admit it because of the whole fear of rejection thing. It’s a very loaded situation. He goes for the safe approach: the hand shake. We sit, and I can tell pretty immediately that this bottle of wine is going to need to opened and consumed, if only to calm nerves.
Our conversation began with quotidian topics: the day, the job, etc.- he’s a computer engineer, graduated with an MA from Drexel, and likes his job working at an ESL software company creating programs to help foreigners learn English. And then the menus came. Now, I know the right thing to order on dates: date food. Nothing that will spill or splatter, something that is both easy and a bit sexy to eat, nothing that will destroy your breath, makes you look like a pig, or pose the risk of indigestion.
I don’t believe in date food. Is that bad? Bring on the spaghetti with marinara. Curry: please. Sweetly, Q asked what was good (I chose the restaurant), and what is good, unfortunately, are the 2 pounds of mussels in chunky-tomato and garlic sauce. Mussels are probably the ugliest food one can eat. They look like snot. Opaque, beige, large snot. And you need to use your hands in eating them. But they are one of my favorite foods, and Audrey Claire sort of rocks them. For $12. It’s an amazing deal. And being the agreeable guy that he was, we got mussels. And Gorgonzola flat bread. (If I’m going to break with convention, I’m going to really break with convention.)
We got some wine down, start talking about France, but to be perfectly honest, I cannot, for the life of me, remember the specifics. Because my attention was split between him, and noting what he was saying so I could ask him interesting, engaged questions, and thinking: I should be hitting it off with this guy, I should want to jump his bones, but I got nothing.
We finished dinner, delicious dinner, and we were the last people in the restaurant, just eating and talking until 10. When we left, we walked around for a bit so he could walk off a bit of wine before he drove back to the country. It was lovely, a great night, good talks, really, the ideal situation to have a first kiss. I didn’t even want one. He walked me to my door, and we hugged goodnight. On an Indian summer night with a warm breeze. Give me a break; I couldn’t have orchestrated the thing better. But I didn’t want him. The whole thing just killed my libido (hence the Jaws song upon entry into my house).
I’m trying to figure out why. I mean, there are two options. The optimistic one, the one I want to believe because this guy is good on paper, is that nerves, exhaustion, and the circumstances in general, put he and I off. The realistic one: chemistry takes less than a minute to gauge. Mostly, at least in the past,I know within 10 seconds if I’d like to see you naked. This guy? Nothing. And I wonder if it’s the online dating thing.
I’m thinking about the last guy I wanted to see naked (at least at the time). Truth be told, I didn’t want him immediately, it took an hour and a half or so until we started speaking and broke away from the group. And then I wanted him. And then I fantasized after the the night was over. But with this guy, I fantasized during the week before our date. The date itself undercut whatever prior hopes I had for the outcome.
He’s asked me out again, and I think I’ll go. Not to fill quotas, but because I would really like to like this guy.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Definition of Maturity
is: to have the foresight to know that one's momentary excitement will dissipate with the passing of time. A mature person makes choices based on the knowledge of this foresight, no matter how ideal the aforementioned momentary excitement might seem. For example, an adult knows that no matter how delicious chocolate might be, eating a pound of it will result in a stomach ache a short time later. Weighing these two options against each other, said adult will choose to eat an ounce of chocolate and savour it.
By this measure, I am a five-year-old who just gorged on a bag of candy corn. Or who has made a date to do so at 8:00 tonight.
A week or so ago, I started talking to this guy, who I'll call Q (I'll explain in my entry post-date). Q and I have a TON of shared experiences: we both studied in Rennes for a semester (5 years apart) and adored it, we were both assistants in small-town France, and we both have a thing for condiments. In terms of okcupid messages, I really like this guy. And so, for our date tonight, we decided to embrace the whole France thing and go for some wine. Now, Q lives about an hour away from Philly (he's moving here in a week), and so we scheduled our date for a bit later on in the evening. Under normal, indifferent-feeling circumstances, I would have opted for something quick, risk-free, and easy to get out of, but on a Monday night at 8 with a guy who is communing two hours here and back to meet me, I think it would have been a hard thing to pull off either way. Not to mention, when we planned this thing, I was all dopey smiles. So what do I push for? Dinner at a BYOB bistro. Dinner. A 1 or 2 hour commitment. Stupid. Just because this guy has had a similar life to me (in some regards) does not mean we'll be compatible. All I could think about on my walk home was: how many male assistants did I loath? Well, not that many, but that's because it's a 9:1 female/male ratio, and most of those males were gay. But the ones I did know, aside from this wonderful gay Irishman, didn't really do anything for me. And that non-effect, in this scenario, could be even worse than loathing.
So, in an hour and a half, I will gorge. Because that's what my moronic hopeless-romantic side told me to do. Stay tuned for what comes.
By this measure, I am a five-year-old who just gorged on a bag of candy corn. Or who has made a date to do so at 8:00 tonight.
A week or so ago, I started talking to this guy, who I'll call Q (I'll explain in my entry post-date). Q and I have a TON of shared experiences: we both studied in Rennes for a semester (5 years apart) and adored it, we were both assistants in small-town France, and we both have a thing for condiments. In terms of okcupid messages, I really like this guy. And so, for our date tonight, we decided to embrace the whole France thing and go for some wine. Now, Q lives about an hour away from Philly (he's moving here in a week), and so we scheduled our date for a bit later on in the evening. Under normal, indifferent-feeling circumstances, I would have opted for something quick, risk-free, and easy to get out of, but on a Monday night at 8 with a guy who is communing two hours here and back to meet me, I think it would have been a hard thing to pull off either way. Not to mention, when we planned this thing, I was all dopey smiles. So what do I push for? Dinner at a BYOB bistro. Dinner. A 1 or 2 hour commitment. Stupid. Just because this guy has had a similar life to me (in some regards) does not mean we'll be compatible. All I could think about on my walk home was: how many male assistants did I loath? Well, not that many, but that's because it's a 9:1 female/male ratio, and most of those males were gay. But the ones I did know, aside from this wonderful gay Irishman, didn't really do anything for me. And that non-effect, in this scenario, could be even worse than loathing.
So, in an hour and a half, I will gorge. Because that's what my moronic hopeless-romantic side told me to do. Stay tuned for what comes.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Date #1: The Dictator; Also, an Introduction.
So I've been talking to this guy for a couple of weeks. I think it started when he commented on my love of runny eggs (seriously, we're talking about important stuff here). His was the first message I received off of okcupid.com, so forgive me if I have a soft spot for him (you'll understand with the red flags to come). When I got it, maybe 24-hours after I signed up for online dating, I ran excitedly downstairs and told my roommate, Danielle (who will be a regular on this blog, so it's best if I just introduce her right now), all Chirstmas-morning-excited. "A guy, he likes me!" Ok, so it wasn't quite that desperate, but close.
I should explain where I'm coming from: I lived in South-Western France for the 2009-2010 academic year, and just a few months before, I graduated from Muhlenberg College-- I also spent a semester abroad in France during that time; my point is I've never been in a place long enough to call it "home" because there has always been an end date to wherever I've been during my "adulthood." And now, I've found myself in an apartment, with a lease and a job and dental insurance and a 401k, and really, it's all a bit much. There is no expiration, and frankly, this is the most settled I've ever been. And I guess, this is the sort of mindset that has made me decide that I'm actually ready to pursue a relationship. Actively. Because up until this point, I can blame my single status to the moving around, my unerring independence (I'm my mother's daughter), and my pickiness (I have a picture of the perfect man in my head: he is a bearded, sensitive, thoughtful guy who lives in a log cabin and whittles quirky wooden figurines whilst writing long, insightful novels- like Howard Roark but not an architect with a god complex). And we all know this isn't the case, you know, that I've actually chosen to be single, but I've never actually chosen to be un-single before. So that's something.
And so, for the first time I have chosen to be un-single. Great. So the plan from there? It's not like I'm living in Sex and the City, like Aleksandr Petrosky's are awaiting me at fabulous gallery openings and Aiden Shaw's are just sitting back, selling furniture upholstered in 100-year-old leather. Puh-lease, I wish. How do people meet each other anymore? And don't tell me my job, because I'm in publishing, which is the just about the most female-dominated profession around beside gynecological nurse practitioner. (The one guy at work that I could maybe be interested in is a straight man about as masculine as the aforementioned gynecological nurse practitioner, so there goes that.)
Which is where okcupid comes in. When I actually sit down and think about what I'm doing (talking to strangers online until I decide they are not complete creeps and give them my number, from which point I go out on a limb and plan to meet them), I sort of want to vomit. It seems so processed and silly, a means of meeting people for those who are desperate for companionship and co-dependence or too ugly to meet someone in a bar or at a party.
But here's the thing: I've done the party-meetings; I've flirted with guys at bars, let them buy me drinks, and then have to deflate their expectations by breaking the news that alcohol will nevereverever be a fair tradeoff for sex. Although I have, I will not compromise myself for a bad/no orgasm at the age of 23. I've done it. It sucks. And I can do it better myself. Every time. With this, I've come to online dating. It's not ideal and if I could, I would have my friends introduce me to all of the eligible men in their lives, but most of my friends are single women, and they want to hang onto their single dudes.
So here I am, two weeks ago, checking my inbox. There's a message from a 27-year-old engineer telling me that we have similar interests. Wonderful. So I go tell Danielle. She asks to see his profile, as she should. She is shocked to find out three things: 1) he is a Chinese engineer, 2) his beliefs fall on the right wing, and 3) I am MUCH cuter than him (this last one I didn't fully believe until I met him in person, but such is life). In essence, I am talking to a republican named Ming from the Republic of China. Ming Zedong. The Dictator.
He called me on Thursday, and we decided to meet up for coffee on Friday after work. Frankly, in these situations, I think it would be in both parties best interest to meet up for a beer and ease some of the nervousness that a first date brings, but I humored him. I could tell he was a bit of a prude (red flag #1). We met in Rittenhouse Square, planning to each get there by 6. Because I work in the city, just 20 blocks or so away, I walked up and got there 20 minutes or so early. And I was nervous. It's funny how I can work myself into these panicked states over absolutely nothing. What if I'm not cute enough for him, and he takes one look at me and runs in the other direction? What if he's not cute enough for me, and I take one look at him, want to run in the other direction, but can't because I have empathy? It was all very nerve-wracked, and in a way that I usually am not (and sort of hate being).
Luckily, there is an art show going on in the park this weekend, and so its perimeter was covered with tents filled with paintings and sculptures, and so as I waited for him, I walked around, talked to a few artists, and got into a Zen place. Which was great, because when the Dictator finally got there, he was not. I think you can tell a lot about a person's state of mind by their posture and body language, and all of his was pointing into himself-- he was all balled up, arms crossed. Oh, and did I mention he is my height? I've always laughed and rolled my eyes at taller women who refuse to date men who are shorter than them, but I understand it now. Believe me, I don't want someone towering over me, but I think 5'5" is not too much to ask.
I asked him if he had looked at the rest of the art show, and he hadn't, so we made a round. Longest 20 minutes of my life (red flag #2). No, I shouldn't say that. It wasn't awful, and by no means was he a jerk, he was just...dull and awkward. I filled every silence with a question, and good questions that were pointed and challenging. And he came back at me with, "So, where did you grow up?" Which is fine and interesting, but dig a little deeper, eh?
We finally finished the walk, and went to La Colombe for a quick cup of coffee. Actually, the coffee experience really bugged me. He did not pay for my $1.50 cup. The thing was, he was into me, I know he was into me- he just didn't get it. I feel like a bit of a bad feminist saying this, but that is your job; you are the man! We'll do the wallet scuffle where I take out my wallet and look like I'm about to pay, and then you say "No, no, no, put that away, I've got it." And then I'll rebut, "Are you sure?" and you'll nod in response, and then I'll say thank you. The wallet scuffle. And it was $1.50. And he works at Boeing and owns his own house. Come on.
Which, surprisingly, is another thing that bugged me: the house thing. He owns in Delaware, and when I asked him why, he just responded, "I had the money, so I thought I'd do it." There was no pride in the place, just an investment. Honestly, I find owning property a bit intimidating. Not because you're more stable than me and I feel like I'm beneath you because of it, but because I like to up and move quickly without any warning. And sure, my life here is indefinite. But that doesn't mean that I would feel a smidgen of remorse uprooting to Maine or California or wherever. And the idea that you can't do that, and more so, that you have ignorantly chosen this out of some vague notion of the "right thing to do" simply because you're financially stable, freaks me out.
By the time it was 7:00, and the baristas started cleaning up, I took that as my cue to end the thing. So I told he we should probably get going, and he mentioned that maybe we could get a bite to eat, to which I responded that I couldn't, "I have dinner plans at 7:30. Sorry." I have dinner plans to drink some wine with my roommate and watch Mad Men. And so he walked me to the Locust/Rittenhouse Square corner of the park, where he tried to kiss me (I was the prude this time), and I turned it into this awful hug where he insisted that our cheeks touch.
The Dictator: not my thing. Because the bottom line is: I can criticize all I want, but if there was chemistry between us, his height and lack of conversation would have been something entirely different. This would have been a very different first post.
The plan is simple: I am 23, have never actually dated in the way that you're supposed to date in your twenties, and I'm intrigued. So, I'm going to do it in bulk. I'll waste as little time as possible, and this year, I will go on 50 dates. 49 to go by September 16, 2011. I hope some of those are second dates. But if not, I'll at least drink a lot of good coffee (hopefully I won't be paying for it).
I should explain where I'm coming from: I lived in South-Western France for the 2009-2010 academic year, and just a few months before, I graduated from Muhlenberg College-- I also spent a semester abroad in France during that time; my point is I've never been in a place long enough to call it "home" because there has always been an end date to wherever I've been during my "adulthood." And now, I've found myself in an apartment, with a lease and a job and dental insurance and a 401k, and really, it's all a bit much. There is no expiration, and frankly, this is the most settled I've ever been. And I guess, this is the sort of mindset that has made me decide that I'm actually ready to pursue a relationship. Actively. Because up until this point, I can blame my single status to the moving around, my unerring independence (I'm my mother's daughter), and my pickiness (I have a picture of the perfect man in my head: he is a bearded, sensitive, thoughtful guy who lives in a log cabin and whittles quirky wooden figurines whilst writing long, insightful novels- like Howard Roark but not an architect with a god complex). And we all know this isn't the case, you know, that I've actually chosen to be single, but I've never actually chosen to be un-single before. So that's something.
And so, for the first time I have chosen to be un-single. Great. So the plan from there? It's not like I'm living in Sex and the City, like Aleksandr Petrosky's are awaiting me at fabulous gallery openings and Aiden Shaw's are just sitting back, selling furniture upholstered in 100-year-old leather. Puh-lease, I wish. How do people meet each other anymore? And don't tell me my job, because I'm in publishing, which is the just about the most female-dominated profession around beside gynecological nurse practitioner. (The one guy at work that I could maybe be interested in is a straight man about as masculine as the aforementioned gynecological nurse practitioner, so there goes that.)
Which is where okcupid comes in. When I actually sit down and think about what I'm doing (talking to strangers online until I decide they are not complete creeps and give them my number, from which point I go out on a limb and plan to meet them), I sort of want to vomit. It seems so processed and silly, a means of meeting people for those who are desperate for companionship and co-dependence or too ugly to meet someone in a bar or at a party.
But here's the thing: I've done the party-meetings; I've flirted with guys at bars, let them buy me drinks, and then have to deflate their expectations by breaking the news that alcohol will nevereverever be a fair tradeoff for sex. Although I have, I will not compromise myself for a bad/no orgasm at the age of 23. I've done it. It sucks. And I can do it better myself. Every time. With this, I've come to online dating. It's not ideal and if I could, I would have my friends introduce me to all of the eligible men in their lives, but most of my friends are single women, and they want to hang onto their single dudes.
So here I am, two weeks ago, checking my inbox. There's a message from a 27-year-old engineer telling me that we have similar interests. Wonderful. So I go tell Danielle. She asks to see his profile, as she should. She is shocked to find out three things: 1) he is a Chinese engineer, 2) his beliefs fall on the right wing, and 3) I am MUCH cuter than him (this last one I didn't fully believe until I met him in person, but such is life). In essence, I am talking to a republican named Ming from the Republic of China. Ming Zedong. The Dictator.
He called me on Thursday, and we decided to meet up for coffee on Friday after work. Frankly, in these situations, I think it would be in both parties best interest to meet up for a beer and ease some of the nervousness that a first date brings, but I humored him. I could tell he was a bit of a prude (red flag #1). We met in Rittenhouse Square, planning to each get there by 6. Because I work in the city, just 20 blocks or so away, I walked up and got there 20 minutes or so early. And I was nervous. It's funny how I can work myself into these panicked states over absolutely nothing. What if I'm not cute enough for him, and he takes one look at me and runs in the other direction? What if he's not cute enough for me, and I take one look at him, want to run in the other direction, but can't because I have empathy? It was all very nerve-wracked, and in a way that I usually am not (and sort of hate being).
Luckily, there is an art show going on in the park this weekend, and so its perimeter was covered with tents filled with paintings and sculptures, and so as I waited for him, I walked around, talked to a few artists, and got into a Zen place. Which was great, because when the Dictator finally got there, he was not. I think you can tell a lot about a person's state of mind by their posture and body language, and all of his was pointing into himself-- he was all balled up, arms crossed. Oh, and did I mention he is my height? I've always laughed and rolled my eyes at taller women who refuse to date men who are shorter than them, but I understand it now. Believe me, I don't want someone towering over me, but I think 5'5" is not too much to ask.
I asked him if he had looked at the rest of the art show, and he hadn't, so we made a round. Longest 20 minutes of my life (red flag #2). No, I shouldn't say that. It wasn't awful, and by no means was he a jerk, he was just...dull and awkward. I filled every silence with a question, and good questions that were pointed and challenging. And he came back at me with, "So, where did you grow up?" Which is fine and interesting, but dig a little deeper, eh?
We finally finished the walk, and went to La Colombe for a quick cup of coffee. Actually, the coffee experience really bugged me. He did not pay for my $1.50 cup. The thing was, he was into me, I know he was into me- he just didn't get it. I feel like a bit of a bad feminist saying this, but that is your job; you are the man! We'll do the wallet scuffle where I take out my wallet and look like I'm about to pay, and then you say "No, no, no, put that away, I've got it." And then I'll rebut, "Are you sure?" and you'll nod in response, and then I'll say thank you. The wallet scuffle. And it was $1.50. And he works at Boeing and owns his own house. Come on.
Which, surprisingly, is another thing that bugged me: the house thing. He owns in Delaware, and when I asked him why, he just responded, "I had the money, so I thought I'd do it." There was no pride in the place, just an investment. Honestly, I find owning property a bit intimidating. Not because you're more stable than me and I feel like I'm beneath you because of it, but because I like to up and move quickly without any warning. And sure, my life here is indefinite. But that doesn't mean that I would feel a smidgen of remorse uprooting to Maine or California or wherever. And the idea that you can't do that, and more so, that you have ignorantly chosen this out of some vague notion of the "right thing to do" simply because you're financially stable, freaks me out.
By the time it was 7:00, and the baristas started cleaning up, I took that as my cue to end the thing. So I told he we should probably get going, and he mentioned that maybe we could get a bite to eat, to which I responded that I couldn't, "I have dinner plans at 7:30. Sorry." I have dinner plans to drink some wine with my roommate and watch Mad Men. And so he walked me to the Locust/Rittenhouse Square corner of the park, where he tried to kiss me (I was the prude this time), and I turned it into this awful hug where he insisted that our cheeks touch.
The Dictator: not my thing. Because the bottom line is: I can criticize all I want, but if there was chemistry between us, his height and lack of conversation would have been something entirely different. This would have been a very different first post.
The plan is simple: I am 23, have never actually dated in the way that you're supposed to date in your twenties, and I'm intrigued. So, I'm going to do it in bulk. I'll waste as little time as possible, and this year, I will go on 50 dates. 49 to go by September 16, 2011. I hope some of those are second dates. But if not, I'll at least drink a lot of good coffee (hopefully I won't be paying for it).
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