CLEAR AS MUD

Coffee can be so confusing.

The uncertainty started with the last sentence of Daniel’s message, confirming the meeting time and place:  “Looking forward to this long anticipated intercourse.”

Okay,…what?

These are not words to drop on a sexually frustrated single guy. Yeah, I get that “intercourse” can refer to a conversation, but why not choose its less provocative cousin, discourse, or something plain and simple? Chat. Talk. Hell, how about “conversation”?

Intercourse?!

I had to go through the whole manscaping routine. Just in case.

Actually, I should rewind. There was some earlier confusion as well—just not as scintillating. When Daniel suggested we correspond off match.com and use our personal emails, I had his full name right there in the email address. How could I not Google him? By golly, he even came up in Google Images. His online dating images appeared but so did a photo of an older Daniel bearing a remarkable resemblance. Still, it was the kind of older image that indicated his best days were a generation ago. Instant disappointment. Why do people post dated photos of themselves? It creates a certain letdown upon actual meeting. Aren’t there enough in-person letdowns as it is?

I refused to look again at the Google evidence. Maybe, just maybe, these were entirely different people who coincidentally had the same name, eyes and nose. After so many go-nowhere dates, I deserved a solid maybe.

A solid maybe with a possible alternate definition of intercourse.

Trekking to Vancouver for the coffee encounter, I tried to repress the nagging thought that I’d be meeting Old Daniel. I refused to brainstorm possible excuses for an early exit. As well, I tempered any notion that the impressively articulate and handsome Younger Daniel would walk in the café and be instantly smitten by me—dark rings under the eyes and all. (FYI, none of those miracle eye creams work. Still, I keep slathering them on just like I continue to make my weekly donation to the provincial lottery. Sometimes I can be hopelessly hopeful.)

Just go and see. No expectations. Be in the moment.

I arrived early so I could stake out a table and shed all the wintery layers that make me look like a rejected defensive end for the B squad of a minor college team in Lichtenstein (which I am assuming is not a football hub). Nice to shed the appearance of fifty extra pounds with a few zipper pull-downs. I pulled out my iPhone and pretended I was socially connected to gazillions of people sending me texts and tweets. In truth, I checked the weather.

Daniel walked in after I’d surveyed the present conditions in Montreal, Honolulu and Boise. (Yeah, Boise. Why not?)

Younger Daniel! Whew. He charmed me in an instant with a “hello” that revealed his Scottish accent remained intact despite having moved to Vancouver twenty years ago. I wonder if my Canadian accent would be as alluring if I moved to the United Kingdom. I suppose it would be trying too hard if I moved there and packed four “eh”s into every sentence.

Over the next three hours—which included a walk along the Stanley Park seawall—we connected, at least from my perspective. Lots in common in terms of experiences and ways of viewing the world. Still, as I have learned from so many coffees that failed to lead to a second date, a lively chitchat means diddly squat if there is no physical connection. I found Daniel attractive with his slim build and enticing blue eyes, but what did he think of me?

I decided to be bold. Why sit around a day waiting for an email and blaming the lack of any message on what must surely be an overzealous spam filter? Why let confusion linger?

I put it out there. “I’ve enjoyed this afternoon. I find the physical attraction hard to come by, but I feel that with you. Do you have any interest in another date?”

Perhaps I caught him off guard. Daniel gave the desired response—or some semblance of it: “I’d like to get to know you more.” And then the conversation died. Suddenly, the wintery air felt even cooler. (Oh, to be in Honolulu!) Daniel walked me halfway to my car, then escaped up a side street.

End of intercourse.

What happened? In a flash, everything became clear as mud. Sure, it was sludge dredged up from a charming, wee loch, but mud is mud.

Boldness is overrated. As it turns out, being meek and left to check email forty times the day after isn’t such a bad thing after all.

While writing this, I received a text message from Daniel. While the last pre-date message referred to some “long anticipated intercourse” this one veered down a much different path, ending with “Hope your week goes well, my friend.”

Ouch.

No more mud. Add clarity to the overrated heap as well.

THE TRAVELING SHOW—Part 3

This is the final installment in sharing what was to be my dream date with a doctor, a romantic set-up starting with me taking the ferry and him traveling by float plane, all for the sake of trying to find love at a point when both of us felt local prospects had dried up.

You can look at these three blog entries as Before, During and After. More specifically, I view them as The Hope, The Reality and The Despair. I blog this because I have a feeling many other chronic daters will relate.

And so, here we go, bring on the despair.

The first thing I did when I arrived home was send Roland an email, thanking him for flying over to meet me and apologizing for the fact I did not feel a connection.

It’s not easy to let a guy down. It’s worse knowing the time and expense invested on this occasion. As I pressed the Send button, I tried to channel positive thoughts for Roland, wondering how he’d take another rejection. Being single and in his fifties, he’d no doubt had his share of dead-end dates.

Of course, it didn’t take long to turn the focus on me. It feels awful to let another eligible man slip away. Most of us who are still in limbo, single and searching, have to draw on our resilience to rebound and look forward to another opportunity Somewhere Out There in Fievel-land.  I am not feeling resilient at the moment. After dozens upon dozens of mediocre first dates, hope fades.

Gone are the days when I feel each bad date takes me one step closer to finding the right guy. Instead, it seems like I am drifting farther and farther away. Dud dates are the norm.

Will mutual like/lust/love ever return? Will I have a chance to feel something like butterflies again? Will I have a chance to hug again and not want to let go?

Is it indeed possible that all the good ones really are taken?

What will it take to break the cycle of mismatch after mismatch? I wonder what joy people get out of a house full of cats. Do they all pounce on your head in the middle of the night or have I just had the misfortune of cat-sitting psycho kitties? How many cats will it take before my neighbors stage an intervention? I’m really not a cat person, but in the wake of another non-starter date, a kitty connection seems more likely than being a relationship with a man. I am sure I can Google how to clean a litter box.

I’ll feel better in a day or two. I can be resilient. I still have that “ha, ha, ha”, “he, he, he”, “LOL” guy who messaged me. There’s a good chance he’ll think I am funny. Maybe it’s best to go in with low expectations.

CECI N’EST PAS UNE PEEP

I’m not someone you’d describe as singularly focused. I may have my sights on moving to L.A., but that does not mean I’ve successfully tuned out the nagging thoughts of being forever single.

It’s silly really. This is not the time to think about finding love. When I lived in L.A. but dreamed of moving back to Canada, I knew I’d never find a lasting relationship under the palms. I told myself that I had to be in the place where I wanted to be first. Otherwise, my dream would only lead to frustration. Twice I fell in love in L.A. and twice I pitched moving to the land of igloos and no TVs. Both times my Northern ideation helped walls go up. How could the relationship feel stable when I was quite literally unsettled? Eleven months after the second breakup, I quit my law career, packed my car and headed to my home and native land. I had no idea what I would do for a job—turns out studying this video was not helpful—, but I sensed that my life would fall into place. Love would follow. Add a Tim Hortons donut and homemade veggie poutine and I’d live happily ever after.

Seventeen years later, I’m looking South. Whereas I only had four weeks from when I decided to move to Vancouver until I began the drive, my earliest date for a return to Los Angeles will be in July 2012. For the next nine months, I should tune out any ideas about finding love. It’s been a 7 ½-year wait so far...I have lots of reading and writing to bide my time. And I really should catch up on movie classics if I want to hone my screenwriting. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve seen “Pillow Talk” but not “Citizen Kane”. For shame!

Still, a little validation would be nice. My last real date was fourteen months ago. One-time coffee “dates” after online messages don’t count. They are just interviews. The reality is that I fail time and time again. “We’ll call you if we’re interested.” And the cell phone never awakens from deep sleep. I would welcome several dates with the same guy. Get beyond the standard bio exchange. When did you come out? How long have you been in B.C.? Where were you when you learned Ricky Martin was really and truly on our team? Yep, I’m tired of playing in the shallow end. Why doesn’t anyone want to venture to the other side of the pool,...even if only for a season?

It’s a long shot.

If not a string of dates, a few knowing looks would at least affirm that I am more alluring than the ho-hum pastries in the Starbucks display case.

Can’t a decent looking man takes his eyes off the cereal box display in Safeway and give me a peep? Consider it charity. Stares for the needy. Ogle away!

Hello? I exist. If I am stuck in the shallow end, why does it seem that everyone has their eyes shut when I wade in? How long must they play Marco Polo?

I might be better able to play the waiting game if I thought things will be better in Los Angeles, but I cannot kid myself. I remember the model/waiters, model/accountants, model/personal trainers. If I don’t warrant a glimpse here, any thought of standing out in L.A. is foolish California dreamin’.

Sigh. Spinsters may take refuge amongst colonies of cats, but I’ll have closets stacked with jigsaw puzzles. If I’m going to get nothing from time spent gazing elusive baby blues, I might as well lose my vision going bug-eyed staring at cryptic cardboard pieces of indistinguishable blue water. In the end, I might have something to show for my time.

But then, perhaps I’ll send out a final mating call. “Marco?”

FIREWORKS? AT STARBUCKS?!

Rejection sucks.

Amidst a generally sucky atmosphere of a month of rain and unknowingly stepping in my dog’s vomit this morning, I read a follow-up email after having gone for coffee in Vancouver with an Abbotsford realtor I’ll call Ron. (If I were bitter I’d call him Dick or Doofus. But, of course, I’m not bitter.)

He said he didn’t feel any fireworks during our first meeting, but would really like to be friends. Yeah, that “friend” tag always seems lame. People go on Plenty of Fish and other dating sites to gain a bud to watch the Canucks with on Pay Per View. (Again, to clarify, I’m not bitter.)

This is a guy who contacted me first, indirectly, by adding me as a “favourite”, an odd junior high feature on POF that I guess is the equivalent to “Hey, I think you’re neat. Hee hee. But I’m afraid so send a message so I’ll just ‘favourite’ you. Hee hee.” Being as my profile is entirely accurate and I have several photos to negate that One Miracle Photo Effect, I figured he wasn’t physically repulsed by me. Heck, I was neat.

Coffee then. I don’t like exchanging messages for weeks on end. Get together in person and see if there’s a spark. Not fireworks,…a spark, for frickin’ sake. Who expects fireworks from a midday meeting at Starbucks?! I was just pleased to sit across from a guy who dressed nicely instead of some dude who’d just thrown on a 1999 Sun Run t-shirt with holes in it. (Yeah, that was another coffee experience. Not. Going. There.)

I have felt fireworks before on a first meeting. But that was probably the Bacardi talking. And aided by the fact my gym god date wore a vest with nothing underneath. Shallow, yes. I was in my twenties playing in the shallow end with all the other young ’uns. Of course, Ron didn’t have that opportunity. He got married (to a woman) at a young age and had a family. (Okay, maybe a little bitter. I’m really wanting to change his fictional name to Doofus.) The divorce will be finalized “any month now” and Ron has recently had a three-month gay relationship, long distance no less. Three months. Remember those? Shall we go to dinner again at that place where we celebrated our two-and-a-half week anniversary? Oh, and by the way, I haven’t told you lately (i.e, in the past two hours): You’re really neat.

Are fireworks really something to expect on a first date in a coffee shop? Am I the one whose expectations are out of whack? Is hoping for some a pleasant conversation with a few interesting tangential comments beyond the lifetime resumé too low a standard? Honestly, I’d love to hear from someone who actually saw fireworks while sipping a latté on a first meeting.

OK, Ron, go find your fireworks. Never really my thing. They don’t last. And even in the midst of them, the oohs and aahs start to feel a little forced. (Maybe I’m still scarred from that Unfortunate Sparkler Incident when I was six. Can’t find the mark. Maybe it’s just bad lighting. Or maybe it’s on the other hand.)

Plenty of Fish, eh? What the hell am I doing fishing at forty-five? I’m a vegetarian! And even before I saw the light (or whatever), I hated fishing. You sit forever waiting and waiting and waiting for a bite and lose your lure on a rock. Or pull up seaweed.

Fishing sucks.