The carbface-ridden weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas
seemed like a natural opening to start dating again. Long hours at the office coupled with a diet
of high-calorie dinners and enough booze to kill a lesser functioning alcoholic,
I’m living life at the top of my game. I joined Tinder and Hinge, the latter of
which had to look up on my phone as I wrote this in order to get the
name correct. Again, all in over here.
All. in.
Why wouldn’t I be? Almost immediately, someone contacted me
and asked if I would pick a red or blue balloon given the choice? I suggested option C: dying alone with cats
because now I remember why I stopped doing this. Actually, I didn’t say that. I
said, blue if we’re at an election party, otherwise, grey, given the option of
more colors. He told me grey means I’m sophisticated, classy, a little aloof
and added, “in general, colors are somewhat reliable because we’re all
primitive inside.” What? Please stop.
On the flip side, another early, interested party, this time hailing
from Hoboken, showed promise. For starters, I trusted our mutual friend to
generally not keep the company of psychopaths. We quickly bonded over a shared
hatred of all things Jerry Jones as well as both of us incorporating Aaron
Hernandez into our fantasy team’s name. When two people find enough humor in an
athlete who has likely killed about seven people that they make him their
team’s namesake, relentless flirtation is the customary progression. Right? It
totally is.
Not only was he nice, but very funny. He’s a Giants fan,
wine lover, drinks Jameson by the pint and didn’t seem to mind the fact I am
unapologetically ridiculous. We got along swimmingly, so well, in fact, when he
twice suggested skipping the bullshit and simply meeting him at the alter, the joke
didn’t make me vomit. He was also extremely generous when it came to
spontaneous praises, something I normally find nervous-twitch-inducing. It
actually made me smile, not cringe, but I did grow concerned all this chatter
and built-up expectations would only lead to disappointment upon finally
getting together.
Saturday was the first mutually available date we could find
in three weeks to do so. The plan was to belly up to the bar at L’Artusi. Walking
half a block in the snow in 5” heels made it very apparent I would likely fall
and injure myself if I didn’t go back and change into boots. I forgot an
umbrella and failed to remember to grab one while I was back inside. This ultimately made me 30 minutes late and by the time I got there, the
snow had melted into all my hair products, forming a sort of mullet product helmet
on my head. It dried out, but it was a far cry from how I originally walked out
the door. Not my best look and a catalyst to a near crippling feeling of hyper
self-consciousness.
We sat there for three hours, shared food and even an after
dinner drink. When relaying that info to my dear friend and her sister at
brunch Sunday, they both echoed the sentiment that you don’t sit somewhere for
three hours with someone you hate.
However, if I’ve learned anything from a certain self-help book the
most important television show of our time, it’s that sometimes, he’s just not
that into you. And I don’t think he is,
but he did pay the bill and held an umbrella over me until I got into a cab. It’s
more likely he’s just nice than the chance I’ll hear from him again.
I got a little choked up on the way home, possibly aided by Bulleit consumption. However to be wholly forthcoming, it bummed me out. It’s not so much because of one, unsuccessful date with a man I hardly know, but just the whole exhausting,
soul-sucking process. Sometimes it
just feels like life is trying to cuntpunt you and you can’t seem to do
yourself any favors. I think that makes it ok to have a quick cry, threaten the cab driver who doesn't want to drive you back to Brooklyn with physical violence, pour
another drink and move on. And that, ladies and germs, is exactly what I'm doing.
