He looked this good. And this bad.
That’s what I told myself five minutes after my date with Gerry ended. The whole date, I’d looked for a spark but there was absolutely nothing behind those amazing blue eyes. And, really, I knew from the moment we introduced ourselves.
He had that look. Disappointment. From then on, it was simply an exercise in polite conversation. But even that seemed like a stretch. Within the first three minutes, he’d mentioned having a hard week at work, topped off by staying out until 3 a.m. with friends last night. “I had a massage this morning,” he said. “That just makes me sleepier.” Maybe it wasn’t That Look. Maybe he couldn’t engage at all. He added, “I’m a little hung over.”
Yes, this is not a reason to get down. Dud dates happen.
But as he droned on in a deep, monotone voice about his five years in Russia—how did he make that sound boring?—I couldn’t repress the self-criticism. You drove to Seattle for this?!
After an hour ticked by—during which he checked his phone three times—he hugged me goodbye and said, “I’ve got to go have a nap.” Clearly, I did nothing to stir him. It shouldn’t warrant more than a shrug. Never. Meant. To. Be.
Every date is a gamble. And it’s getting to the point where lottery tickets seem more hopeful. But a lottery ticket costs a couple bucks. This date, with travel time and two nights’ hotel,…well, I am here to enjoy other things. It’s fortunate that the date was early Saturday afternoon. Over and done. Plenty of time to salvage the weekend.
And I’ll do just that. Don’t get down. I was supposed to meet an architect tomorrow but he bowed out Thursday night, sounding sincerely apologetic. “I really am not a flake,” he said. Clearly, he’s been in the game a while, too. Major work deadlines for Monday and Tuesday. No time for any weekend fun. Just as well. I’d like to be with a guy who has some balance in life.
I’d already decided I was done with looking across the border for other dates. The grass is not greener. But there’s always the shopping. My little Macy’s shopping spree proved to be a quick pick-me-up. A false high, for sure, but it doesn’t come with a hangover. I’d say that puts me one step ahead of dear Gerry.
Hardly a consolation.