| |
You've Got Matches II:
A follow-up date…
THE ASTERISK
THE SAGA BEGINS
As promised, I received an e-mail from 25dates.com on Saturday night with the subject, "You've Got Matches!" Although I played it cool, I was excited. I was matched. There was someone who potentially wanted to date me. Maybe even more than one person. I would be double-booking for lunches and late dinners, after-eights and aperitifs. Soon, I would be able to turn down invitations to tag-along on a Friday night because I'd be, you know, out with HIM, or perhaps staying in with HIM, curled lazily on his couch while he baked me cookies. Or, I could stop - and open the e-mail.
I had two matches. So much for double-booking. I supposed I could alternate them during the week. The final step in this speed-dating process was to…wait. Although I was provided with their e-mail addresses, I could still play hard to get through the World Wide Web, meaning the guy would have to contact me. Besides, I thought it much more likely that the guys had said yes to almost every female at the event, so a personalized e-mail from one of the guys would mean that he actually knew who I was.
Mike* added me to his MSN list, where he sits, to this day, perpetually on "Away" with a smiley face beside his name. The extent of my contact with him has been the times when my name and his name are beside each other on my contact list (which means that yes, I added myself to my contact list in a unique attempt to self-converse).
Dave* contacted me on deadline day (Tuesday) via e-mail. His message was short and somewhat charming - just like how I remembered him. He asked if I would be up for joining him for "a cup of something wonderful and some stimulating conversation." His attempt to be fresh and witty simultaneously intrigued and annoyed me. I wondered if he talked like this in real life, or if he was just trying to be different to get my attention. If we dated, would he invite me to a movie by asking me to accompany him to witness "two hours of cinematic genius"? Or, if it was Heather Graham's latest movie, "a mind-numbing and awkward attempt at acting"?
Nevertheless, I wanted to go. I had checked him as a "yes" for a reason. I e-mailed him telling him I was pretty busy that week, but not too busy on Thursday. He replied with an invite for me to choose the place, and his number for me to call him about this "if I preferred." I was again taken a little with his manners. He wasn't too pushy. He was downright polite, accommodating even. I got a grip and reminded myself that this was just "a cup of something wonderful", not "a blissful unison of two souls as one for all eternity." I couldn't be swayed by one boy's manners just because I had recently encountered many boys who had none.
I suggested we meet at Future Bakery on Bloor. I decided, with help from my friend Lucie, that this was a safe bet, because it was relatively close to where I lived, was always populated (therefore providing many conversation topics, as well as witnesses in case he tried anything inappropriate), and has excellent comfort food (for me to stuff my face in the absence of any witty comment). I also gave him my number to confirm the date.
On the afternoon of the date, I hadn't heard from him via e-mail or phone. This placed me in a peculiar predicament. Should I call him to see if he'd received my e-mail, and to ask if the date was still on? Or, should I not call him and assume that it was in fact still on? Or, should I call him and say that I was running late and would therefore need to meet fifteen minutes later, thereby confirming the date in a stealthy fashion? The outcome of all of these would be comical. If I called him and he had received my e-mail, he might think I was prematurely clingy. If I didn't call him, I could potentially end up at Future's alone, and thus providing the conversation topic for the patrons ("Look at that girl. She keeps looking at the door like she's waiting for someone - how sad! Maybe we should feed her.") This might not be all bad. If I confirmed the date stealthily, I would still have to call him first, and frankly, no matter how non-traditional the dating methods have become, I am still a firm believer in the guy calling the girl first, unless it is absolutely impossible (as in, you met a guy and shared a fleeting glance that clearly meant "true love," so you find him through a 6-Degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon-type connection and make the call).
I mulled over this fact for a good fifteen minutes, but was saved when Dave called to say he'd be running late. "Oh," I said, "You DID get my email." He laughed, and was very calm and again, charming, making the think there was no reason I couldn't have called to confirm our date.
I thought, "I am not cut out to play this dating game."
As usual, I ended up being late. I ran down the street in three-inch boots, trying not to slide into traffic from the mid-February slush and ice that covered the sidewalks. I entered Future's and looked around for a guy (possibly a cute one) sitting alone. My glasses fogged up. I took them off, squinting. Nothing. I fumbled for my phone and dialled Dave's number. I continued to look around, cleaning my glasses with one hand, phone in the other, hunched over with my purse precariously balanced on my knee, still squinting.
"I can see you," he said when he answered the phone. "Well," I muttered, "I really can't see you." Then suddenly he was behind me. The first thought I had was that he had been wearing a baseball cap at Fez for a reason. The second thing I thought was that things would never work between us, because he weighed less than I did. These are all things that are not immediately noticeable when you meet someone sitting down.
We sat and talked for a little over an hour, and the conversation did indeed stimulate me - in a way that I had never felt before. It was sort of like having an itch inside but it keeps jumping around so you can never quite scratch it and instead want to rip your skin off.
His seventh reference to how I would keep him on his toes, although flattering, made me want to change the subject immediately.
Dave said he was an adventurous guy, so I quizzed him a little about his…"adventures." He had considered skydiving, thought about bungee jumping, was going to get his motorcycle license sometime, and hadn't gone hiking lately. His cup of something wonderful was coffee. He had, however, injured his thumb recently while skiing.
"Mmm," I thought. "Perhaps he is a rugged man, although he is the size and shape of a hiking stick." "How did you hurt it?" I asked.
"On my boot," he said. "I hit my thumb with my boot, on the way to the trails."
I told Dave that I'd never gone on a date with someone I really didn't know - usually, I go out in groups, or with people I already know somewhat. So, really, it was like a first-ever date for me.
"You're lucky!" I joked. "You're setting the standard for all future dates of this kind." "Damn," he said, with mock-discomfort at the situation. "Why'd you have to tell me that?" We both laughed. "Mmm," I thought. "Bantering. Self-deprecation. Humour can be sexy."
He stopped laughing, then, and looked at me. "No, but really, you're the lucky one" he said, his face serious. "You really have no idea."
"Mmm," I thought. "Creepy and cocky is not sexy."
Dave told me about his new job, and how he was enjoying having some financial freedom for the first time in his life. "I mean, I'm sure you're used to it, but it's the first time that I can really do what I want to do. Not like you," he said, in a slightly spiteful voice. I wasn't sure what annoyed me more - the fact that he had judged me based on what I'd said, or the fact that he hadn't judged me based on what I'd said.
I did tell him, for example, that I lived downtown, and that I used to have a car. But I had also said that I had a part-time job, and that my car used to take half an hour to warm up in the winter. I had used loose change from the bottom of my purse to pay for my cup of something-that-was-turning-out-to-not-be-so-wonderful-because-of-the-sour-taste-in-my-mouth because loonies were for laundry, I was a student saver, and I'd left my diamond-studded money clip full of bills at home.
I hadn't even shared enough information for him to make that kind of statement. I was wearing a black T-shirt, not a sweater made out of a rare bird. "Mmm," I thought. "Note to self: Next time, wear a paper bag so he doesn't think you're a privileged snob."
"So, are you adventurous?" Dave asked me a while later.
"Like, in life? In bed?" I didn't realize I was asking a loaded question; I really did want him to be more specific.
"Well, whatever you want. I mean…do you…like…(sex)?" (Brackets indicate whispering of the bracketed word, with gestures). "Like, are you freaky-deaky?"
Since I am adventurous in most aspects of my life (after all, my cup of something wonderful was extra-large and chocolately, with whipped cream) but not freaky-deaky, I didn't meet with Dave again.
Instead, I double-booked myself for a weekend of recharging my internal energy force, indulging in the aphrodisiac properties and robust flavour of cacao products, and outwardly expressing the biological reaction to amusement - sleeping, eating chocolate, and laughing. ¤ Dani