Sun dresses, sunglasses, sweat, and dates. What do these have in common? Just a little thing I like to call summer -prime dating season. At least it was for me in my more promiscuous days when my online dating account became my little black book. Nowadays I spend my free time catching up on my favorite TV shows or going to the gym or brunching or… well, you get the idea. As an engaged woman I am no longer looking for that special someone. However, it wasn’t that long ago that I sifted through ridiculous messages that made me wonder where have all the good men gone? I just wanted a nice guy, who happens to be smart and funny and fit and charming, and throw in six pack abs while we’re at it. He should, at the very least, be able to spell. In a sea of people, why was it so hard to meet someone worthwhile?
Sean started our first date by showing up 20 minutes late. I hate waiting. I find it insulting that someone would have such a disregard for my time that they would stroll in after the grace period of being five, maybe ten, minutes late. But late he was, and met me with a grumpy face (which he would later admit was a side effect from the stress he felt from being late). After the prerequisite drinks were drunk and appetizers eaten we went Dutch on the check. Going Dutch isn’t a crime, and more people are doing this on first dates nowadays, but I’m old fashioned and like to be taken out on a date.
At the time, Sean was yet another online date in a string of first dates that made the idea of a life as a dog lady (I hate cats) somewhat appealing. I didn’t realize that this guy who showed up late was going to make me feel sparks when we kissed. Or that someone who made me pay for half the bill that first night would tell me he loved me in eight days. I sure as Hell couldn’t have guessed that he would want to spend the rest of his life anchored to me legally. I’m glad I didn’t discount him for all the arbitrary flaws I projected onto him initially.
The magic of online dating is you never know what you’re going to get. It is, in a sense, controlled chaos. Your date can start out well but end in disaster, or vice-versa. People don’t always represent themselves honestly but you accept a drink invitation because from what you gleaned from their profile/pictures/private messages is that this person might have something to offer. If you want to fall in love, or have a chat with someone who also loves cats as much as you do (dogs are better), or even go on a date because you’re bored, there’s a catalog of people to peruse to find what suits your mood. And even if it gets frustrating it’s still amusing, and even better: exciting! That’s why we keep going on dates, because any date can be the date with that someone worthwhile; even if it’s a bust, 9 out 10 says you have a good story to tell the next time you see your friends.
P.S. If you’re curious about my first date with Sean, tune in to the blow by blow next week.
He gives me a blow by blow while I wait: “might be like 10 min late or so,” and “taking the ACW from 42nd to 14th,” and “2 blocks away.” He is 20 minutes late by the time he makes an appearance. Cute, I think. Tall. Thank you, dating gods. Though I wish he was happier to see me.
The original venue was a small, packed, and somewhat foggy wine bar. He is on board with fondue so I suggest The Bourgeois Pig on 7th instead. I ask about the sour puss and he explains he was a little stressed from the commute from New Jersey. The fondue spot is busy but they promise us a table in a half-hour. Such are Friday nights. While we wait we’re asked to sit by the window on stools so close together, I feel like my personal bubble is being popped. Wanting to lighten the mood I immediately resort to funny. We exchange jokes. Have a drink (wine for me, beer for him), laugh about previous dates, disasters, and mild successes. It’s going better than I thought. His dating profile read as more arrogant. I’m glad I didn’t cancel.
Our table is ready after what feels like an eternity. We sit across from each other and immediately he feels too far away. Strange. More talking. More laughing. Bread dipping. His interests. Wine gulping. My interests. At some point he tells me he has work in the morning. I gather he informs me for one reason: he’s not that into me and wants to make an exit using work as a cogent excuse. I get the hint. I feel a bit rejected. I know it’s a first date but I mistakenly thought we were mutually enjoying each other’s company. Too bad he’s cute, and seems easy going. Striking out never feels good, even with strangers.
The check arrives and we eventually pay the bill. As we leave the restaurant he asks if I’d like to change the scenery to a bar that he used to go to often when he lived in the Lower East Side. I do an internal double take. It’s now 11pm. What about work early the next morning? In this case, this one case, I am happy to be wrong. Off to the next location. At the bar we sit on opposite sides again. I was on my third or fourth drink and I am starting to feel them. He is stone sober. My arms are on the table when he casually touches me for the first time. Finally. I can definitely work with this. I decide to sit next to him on the bench when the couple next to us leaves. He leans in to give me one of the best kisses of my life. This is good. I like this. But I made a pact with myself: no sex on the first date.
The evening winds down. We walk to the F train together where, in full submission to the wine’s effects, I nuzzle his neck and we kiss like teenagers on the subway platform. The train arrives. We sit together. I don’t invite him back to my place. He kisses me good-bye on his stop. I continue the ride home alone.