CAFFEINE WITHDRAWAL

You know that spherical plastic toy for preschool children with the holes of different shapes and the pieces that fit through them? I think I’ve always identified with it. Only my version of the toy has slots for circles and squares and I’m a triangle. There is no clear match. No matter which way I turn or how hard I push, I don’t seem to fit in any of the damn holes!

The image flashed back again as I walked away from my coffee date with Luc. Yes, I managed to find the right café this time so I’m grateful we had a chance to meet. (You don’t want to think the one that got away was the one you never met.)

With the date still fresh in my mind, the question that lingers is “What just happened?!” I’ll say that Luc was definitely cute. Although twenty-seven, he looked younger. I still don’t know why he messaged a forty-four year old. I may be a young forty-four but it’s a stretch to twist into a twentysomething. I would need some sort of Transformer power, a time machine or a magical therapist like on “Being Erica”.

The meeting lasted forty-five minutes, probably the shortest coffee date I’ve ever had. Even the bad ones last an hour. The encounter felt like an exchange of biographical information without any anecdote leading to the telling of a similar experience from the other. Common things surfaced like a dabbling in triathlons, but a connection never surfaced.

We talked about an art exhibit he went to last week and agreed that art should evoke emotion, good or bad. An artist has failed if the work generates no feeling whatsoever. While we sat together, I could not get a read for how Luc felt—if, that is, he felt at all. True, he used a napkin to pat his face early on, a possible sign of nervousness that he attributed to a hot room temperature in the café (that I never felt) and lingering body heat from a midday run. I’m inclined to accept one of his explanations since his demeanor seemed aloof or indifferent.

We walked a couple of blocks from the café before going in different directions. While I continued to try to find something in the conversation, I suspect he would have been content to put on a pair of headphones—no need to hook them up to anything; just a visual to show that I’d been officially tuned out. When we arrived at the parting corner, neither of us said, “I really enjoyed meeting you” or “We should get together again.” Instead, he said, “Have a nice drive home.” Isn’t that the equivalent to “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out”?

It’s only been a half hour since the cool goodbye, but obviously I’m still trying to figure out what happened (and what didn’t happen). I knew going in that the chances of a strong connection with a much younger guy were remote. Yet I know I was open to it, even hopeful. Not like in Please let me score with a young guy, but more like I’d love to find someone who fits, age be damned. I replay things, searching for a spark that I never felt and I’m sure he never felt. As I bargain to retain some hope, I wonder if his coolness was tied to his French culture and not a reflection of a lack of interest. Unfortunately, I know the answer.

It’s easier when I can dismiss someone for a lack of physical attraction. When that’s not the case, the rejection comes down to who you are a person. Ouch. I’ll go home and continue to hope for a message from Luc in the next day or two. I may send him one. Just in case I missed something.

I’m still doing it, trying to cram that triangle into the circle slot. One day I may finally meet another triangle. Then I can toss that stupid toy in the trash. No passing it on to someone else to play with. Let the next nascent triangle proceed with fewer molds to try to fit into.

TWO TABLES FOR ONE

I got stood up. He did, too.

People have different standards as to what is comfortable to do as a party of one. I’ll eat dinner at a fine restaurant on my own as long as I bring a book along. I’ll go solo to see a movie at a matinee or on a weeknight but not on a Friday or Saturday night. I don’t think twice about sitting in a café by myself. Nothing uncomfortable about that.

Except when I’m actually supposed to be with someone. Being stood up changes everything. The environment shifts from perfectly natural to utterly pathetic.

I showed up at the Bridgehead Café in downtown Ottawa ten minutes before the time I’d agreed to meet Luc. It’s always good to do a quick check in the restroom mirror. First impressions are crucial. I ordered my coffee and selected a prime table, a two-seater that seemed to have a bit of distance from other patrons, allowing more privacy during our conversation. It was also a perfect spot for glimpsing people as they entered the café.

I sipped slowly as I sat and waited. I occupied the time reading a section of an abandoned newspaper and then switched to jotting down some ideas in my writing notebook. As coolly as I could, I glanced up as people filed in and out. Lots of women, some guys clearly shorter than Luc’s stated 6’0” frame and some men far older than 27. Luc? No. Not yet.

I didn’t have a watch or a cell phone with me, but I knew a good chunk of time had ticked by. Hope faded and then completely extinguished. I tried to bargain with myself, wondering if my sense of time was out of whack. Maybe my nervousness made my internal clock race ahead of real time. Alternately, I tried to account for Luc’s delay. Maybe there’d been an accident. Nothing severe, but just enough to detain him. A minor flood in his kitchen perhaps.

Slow sipping switched to gulping. I needed to get out of there. I’d like to think the barristas had plenty to distract them, but somehow it felt like they knew I’d been stood up. Maybe they saw this kind of thing once a day. And today’s sad sack is…moi. It’s hard to stave off that feeling of despair after so much anticipation. Coffee time was a bust.

I got up and took one last glimpse around the café. I knew I hadn’t overlooked a possible Luc sighting, but I scanned the room just in case. I headed for the exit. I can’t remember when a cup of coffee tasted as bitter.

I got on the freeway in rush hour traffic and began the crawl home. And then it hit me. I’d gone to the Bridgehead on Elgin. It was the one I was familiar with. Hadn’t his message referred to the one on Bank Street? Oh, my god! I wasn’t the stood-up-ee. I was the stood-up-or. All the feeling of rejection I’d felt was brought on by my error. And over on Bank Street at the same time, Luc had been feeling the same kind of isolation!

Seventy minutes after our agreed upon meeting time, I desperately tried to swing over to Bank and locate another Bridgehead coffeehouse. Being Ottawa, the next freeway exits were closed due to construction. When I finally was able to get off, I tried racing back to the downtown area. Problem is street racing is impossible in the heavy traffic of late afternoon. Red lights, more construction and one way streets caused further delay as my stomach knotted and I felt more and more like a heel. Eventually—more than ninety minutes late—I found the Bridgehead on Bank. I knew Luc would be gone, but I tried to park to go in to see for myself. Problem is there is no street parking (or stopping) anywhere in the area between 3:30 and 5:30 p.m.

I had no choice but to turn back home feeling completely distraught. It was a struggle to keep any composure when all I wanted to do was berate myself over missing a rare opportunity. Yeah, I know the age difference could have been a big issue, but I never even allowed the chance for it to be up for discussion. Physical attraction, chemistry, common interests, sense of humor, intelligence,…none of it had an opportunity to be explored.

I completely blew it.

I drove considerably faster than the speed limit once I got out of the Ottawa metro area. I needed to get to the small town library ASAP to get on the Internet and send off an apology message to Luc. As I well knew, it sucks to feel like you’ve been blown off, to wonder if your coffee date took a peek in the window and kept on walking, to think that a rerun of “Judge Judy” might have suddenly become more interesting than a meeting with a guy from an online dating site. My apology was profuse and sincere. I mentioned hoping for a second chance to erase a terrible first impression. Of course, I’m well aware that first impressions usually stick. And I have only myself to blame.