He is so nexted, I need another word for nexted.
My first impression of "white and from Connecticut" was so on par- I really need to learn to trust my intuition. In my defense, I don't want this to become a blog of man-hating; I actually do want to like these guys and give them the benefit of the doubt. But geeze, I need some non-doubt to go on (and not just full-blown disgust).
The day after our first date, Q emailed me letting me know he had a lovely time and was interested in going out again. I wanted to blame the uptight vibe I got from our first date on nerves and that initial desire of wanting to impress someone upon first meeting. And who knows how I came off? I was nervous. Fuck, I meditated before the thing. Anything is possible. Maybe I was engaging in a dating pissing contest of sorts (though I think my instincts generally go against pissing contests unless specifically provoked).
I’m making him out to be worse intentioned than he actually is. Our emails post-first date were good. Not as good as the emails pre-first date, but still, not bad. They were funny and verging on flirty with a hint of restraint. I’m ok with that as long as this is a point from which to grow. On our first date, Q mentioned this restaurant downtown, Beau Monde, which is apparently this amazing creperie in Philly, a one-of-a-kind experience. And for two people who lived in Rennes, the crepe capital of France, it seemed ideal and thoughtful as a second date. He mentioned it at Audrey Claire, and enamored with the idea of it, I went with it, telling him before we parted ways last Monday that yes, I would love to go to Beau Monde with him.
The France flirting continued, and although it wasn’t there immediately in person, I though, what the heck? How many nice guys who can write grammatically correct, witty sentences who have been to France exist in this world? Seven? I indulged in the email, telling myself that if it wasn’t there in person, we’d end it at date two.
So the gig was on: we planned on meeting at Beau Monde, tonight, at 8pm. Perfect. Not perfect in location (it’s about 25 blocks away from me, and in tonight’s drizzling, I would have preferred Pub and Kitchen, but I’m willing to walk in the rain and get a bit frizzy for a good galette). The gig was on until: I received a call at 5:30, and then one an hour later saying: “Hi Sarah. So I checked the hours at Beau Monde, and as it turns out, it’s closed on Monday’s. I don’t know if you want to reschedule for later on this week or just go out tonight elsewhere. Give me a call and let me know.” Except in this paraphrasing, I’m excluding all of the neurotic type-A-ness, glazing over the control-freak tambour in his voice.
If you know me, you know that I am awful at picking up the phone and returning your calls in a timely matter. It’s a thing- I silence my phone, and don’t believe that I should be accessible on a 24 a day basis. I’ve fought with my mom over this more times than I can count, and let me say: if she can’t nag me into paying better attention to my phone, no one can. Though this attitude kicked me in the ass tonight, when I listened to Q’s original voicemail 1.5 hours after he left it. For someone who lived in Philly, this wouldn’t be an issue, but for someone who was driving an hour to meet me and also anxiety-ridden, well, yes, this was a problem.
I called him back, and told him it was fine, he should still come in and we’d just find another restaurant. I didn’t want to reschedule, because I had Monday-Wednesday booked, and received another call from a different guy (who I find very attractive) that I’m hoping to parle into a Thursday or Friday date. And I’m going to D.C. for the weekend, so no, there would be no rescheduling (not to mention, I don’t believe in weekend dates unless I REALLY like you). I have dating quotas to fill here! Plus, why drag something out unnecessarily? Anyway, at 7, I told him to come here, and that we’d find a place near me.
Of course, there was traffic on 76 and 276, so by the time he got here, I was ready to gnaw my arm off. If you’ve never seen me hungry, I’d recommend avoiding it at all costs. I’m mean. I get sassy and defensive and have no verbal filter. Which, on a night like tonight with a person like Q, I have zero remorse over. But if I haven't eaten for eight hours and silently loathe a young mother with 3 screaming children running up and down the isle of a bus or train, then yes, I would feel badly- that embarrassment would probably sink in 20 minutes after a meal, but it would come.
While on his way here, he tried to amuse me with text messages. Somewhere along the line, he made a mouth-to-mouth recitation joke (i.e. you should probably eat an apple or granola bar, because I don't know if a second date is quite the right time to need mouth-to-mouth), and me, being me, could not just let it hang. Many of the original doubts that I had about this guy stemmed from the fact that I didn't want him, so I knew that if it has any chance of progressing past tonight, I would need to introduce that. And I chose a text as my medium (I know, not the most tactful of choices, but an opportunity presented itself).
So I wrote back something along the lines of: "...or maybe this is all a part of my diabolical second-date plan. It's true: I control the traffic on 76." We're not talking risqué or explicit; sarcastic, yes; playful, yes; flirty, yes. What does he respond? "Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into..." Note the capitalization of "Lord." In a text. It was at that moment, I knew it was going to be an awful date and my night would be better spent doing the Monday Times crossword with Danielle while listening to Ella Fitzgerald.
He got in at 9:20, and he was obviously frazzled. I'm sorry, but if a closed restaurant is something you're going to get frazzled over, well, let's just say that's a very WASP-y, Connecticut thing to get frazzled about. And I don't do well being put in the position of corrupting harlot, but I do even worse in the position of understanding, stroke-your-back little woman you come home to. Originally, I was thinking we'd go to Pub and Kitchen, but I couldn't handle the idea of walking four blocks with a high-strung, hungry dude to find out it's closed on a Monday- I opted instead for the first open restaurant I saw: Dimitri's, a Greek place known for its seafood. If nothing else, dating is allowing me to experience the variety of Philadelphia cuisine on someone else's tab. Is that shallow? I'd feel worse if he wasn't an engineer and making triple my salary.
We go into the restaurant and are seated at a round table with four seats. I sit diagonal to the door (so I could people-watch if I got bored), and where does he sit? Directly across from me. I hate that. I mean, how cold can you get? I sat down first, so it was his call. And I saw the wheels turning, as he was deciding, questioning what the proper thing to do was in this kind of a circumstance. Our wait came over with menus, and I had no idea what I wanted, which I feel like happens a lot. Plus, I was feeling generally apathetic to what I ate because I was feeling generally apathetic to the situation in general. I asked Q what he was considering, and he decided on the shrimp scampi (dull and traditional). He reposed the question at me, and I told him: I'm not sure, I think I'm going to ask the waiter what he recommends. He'll know better than me.
This is a very French concept, that professionals in the field will always know better than the consumer. This is exactly why I wouldn't get my hair cut in France, but whenever I went into a restaurant or wine store, I'd let someone else make the decision for me. I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to food (as long as it's not insanely spicy, and even then, I'll begrudgingly try it), and find this to be a fine custom in which to partake. But Q somehow took this defensively, as if I was personally insulting him by having the waiter weigh in. "Oh, well aren't you adventurous and different."
I should say, as much as I'm writing this narrative in a very sassy tone, my sass was muted until this point. But as soon as you take your insecure bullshit out on me directly by trying to belittle me in any way, however minute, I will bite back in the most tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic way that you won't actually be able to tell if I'm trying to be funny or just being mean. And in the moment, he thought it was funny, but on the drive home, I have no doubt that he replayed that dinner conversation and realized how much of a bitch I was being.
"I am, actually." Deadpan. There's nothing like someone not engaging in an insulting joke to piss them off more. And with perfect timing, the waiter came to our table, and asked what we would like. Q went first: the shrimp and a glass of Merlot. "Well, what do you recommend of the small dishes? I really like everything." His response: fried calamari and grilled octopus legs. Neither of these things sounded remotely appealing to me, but I had to follow through. "I'll have the grilled octopus. And a glass of white. Something crisp- what do you think?" Sauvignon blanc. "That sounds lovely. Thank you for the recommendation!" I was flirting with the waiter a little.
We continued with the conversation, which was dull: he told me about his weekend and his crazy friends that planned an impromptu road trip to see him. I also asked him about his impending move, deciding that spending the entire evening on the offensive might be bad juju. "I'm moving on Sunday, October 24th, but that's turning into a really busy few days. The Friday before is my birthday, and Saturday, I'm going apple picking. And then Sunday's the move." Trying to dig down a little deeper, I asked him how he was feeling about it: "Any existential crisises coming your way?" Yes, crisises. Not crises. Crisises. He began laughing. "Yes?" I asked, eyebrows raised? "Um, Sarah, it's crises. And you're an editor for a living. Pfft." This compounded with the fact that he had been criticizing the fact that I say "whatev" threw me over the edge. It's one thing to correct my wording if you've known me for a long time, and even then, I can find it condescending, but to begin attacking me the second time we meet for dinner? No. Just no. The entire night was like this, moment after moment of him trying to assert himself over me.
The silver lining is: dinner was amazing. That slightly vengeful choice of grilled octopus paid off- I would go back and get it again for sure. And when the check came, I barely put up a fight to pay. Danielle said it's like a modern-day form of prostitution. I say it's smart: if I have to pay $20 for a meal every time I have a bad date, times 50 dates? $1000 is not worth it. It's not my fault I don't like you; they're your character flaws. And I put the way he paid out of my brain last time, writing it off as a cute, traditional thing. "Are you sure I can't put anything in," I queried, just to be polite. "What did I tell you last time? When I take you out, I take care of you." Oh fuck off. It's not a question of being polite, it's a question of asserting dominance and power with money. Do you know how long I've been single? Do you have any idea what a fiercely independent woman is? If you met my mother, she would rip you a new one.
I let him walk me home to avoid actively creating a confrontation. I hugged him goodnight, said nothing of having a good time or gratitude for the meal, went inside gated courtyard outside my apartment, and did not bat an eye or turn my head. Now that is cold.
Next.
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