NOT FEELING IT

Haven’t written here in a while. That’s a story that I’m not ready to tell. It may go forever untold. (You’re welcome.)

For better or for worse, things are back to normal. Why not kick things off with another coffee date? Actually, in this case, I went out on a limb and suggested brunch. How bad could it get? Eggs benny to go?!

This date arose from match.com instead of that dried-up pond known as Plenty of Fish. Despite being one of the top dating sites for straight folks, match.com shares my track record with the gays: we just haven’t attracted them. Since joining at the beginning of January, three interesting men have messaged me. Sadly, one lives in Edmonton, Alberta. Another lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and the third lives outside Denver. Apparently match.com gays are unfamiliar with Google Maps. Needless to say, I passed on this trio. Thanks for the interest. Unfortunately, we’re a ways off from perfecting teleporting. Oh, what could have been!

The bright side of all this is that it makes a ninety-minute trek into Vancouver seem like a mere blip for a brunch date. Messaging Kevin seemed perfectly reasonable while I await an email from some guy in Cleveland. Admittedly, Kevin’s main profile pic was the original enticement. What’s not to like about a fit fifty-year-old whose body and smiling face belong in a Land’s End catalogue? His profile expressed an interest in meeting a similarly aged man who keeps in shape and enjoys an active life. And then there was mention of his passion for writing. Hey, match.com, maybe this could actually be a match. Anything is possible, at least until the waiter announces the breakfast specials.

And so I hopped on the ferry this morning, full of anticipation, moderated by a track record that contains a glaring absence of second dates. Somebody’s got to break the losing streak. Why not Kevin?

Brunch passed nicely enough. Interesting conversation easily digested with some particularly tasty pancakes. Hmm, what’s that added ingredient? Butter?! Oh, to think I’ve banished that from my fridge at home. I may have to do some rethinking.

In the meantime, I am left to rethink the date itself. It seems that I have failed miserably in accurately gauging these first dates. Seems I’ve become less picky and blinded with an optimism that a second date shall come to pass. And, as I’ve already noted, my feelings have been all wrong or at least entirely one-sided.

In replaying parts of the encounter, I can’t recall Kevin flashing that smile that had originally dazzled me in his photos. Was I too serious? Did I fail to convey a sense of humor? Gosh golly, what are the chances that he was just nervous?

As we parted outside his condo building, shielding the rain with our umbrellas, there was no kiss, no hug. Such a gesture is plain awkward with our parasols, is it not? I should not read anything more into the lack of affection, right?

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. Not a lot to go on. Still, it’s a tad more promising than “See ya” or the monosyllabic “Bye.”

There’s a glimmer of hope isn’t there? Or should I start to look at real estate in Baton Rouge?

I just don’t have a clue anymore.

 

UPDATE: It’s early evening and I am waiting to board the ferry to head home. I texted Kevin to see if he wanted to get together again. Kevin replied by saying, “I enjoyed our conversation. I like you and think we have a lot in common. But, to be honest, I’m really looking for that spark of chemistry. I did not get that.”

So there you go. Mrs. Redmond, my high school Chemistry teacher, has come back to haunt me. Of course, this is all code for a lack of physical attraction. Makes me wonder what the point is in swearing off butter. Think I’ll make a trip to the grocery store as soon as I get home!

And then I’ll go online again. Maybe someone’s hiring in some part of Louisiana.

Drat, drat, drat. (And that’s putting it kindly.)

A DOG OF A DATE

It started with dog shit.

I’d been communicating with Clark through daily messages online for a few weeks and the time had come for the chemistry experiment. I hopped on the ferry and then took the bus into town. After only a few paces on the sidewalk, I heard someone call my name from beside a parked car. Clark. His next words were, “I just stepped in dog crap. I need to find some grass to wipe myself.”

Quite the introduction. They say a bird pooping on you is good luck. Could stepping in dog feces be as lucky?

With morbid fascination, much like when craning to see a car accident, I peeked as he rubbed his foot on a burlap bag covering a dirt plot, the closest thing to grass across the concrete landscape. Dog?! Maybe a horse. I had to look away.

If it had been me, I’d have let my date pass by, taken care of (doggy) business, composed myself and met inside the café. Some moments needn’t be shared. Strangely, Clark was too excited to see me to postpone the first meeting.

In the messages leading up to the coffee date, I had sensed an eagerness bordering on desperation. I tried to convince myself I was reading too much into his words. Sadly, it turned out to be another case of domino dating. From hello—well, technically “I just stepped in dog crap”—it was clear he liked me more than I liked him. The chemistry experiment failed to ignite.

Nothing really wrong with Clark. Nice guy, but as he kept staring at my arms and finally commented on my biceps, I was more intrigued by the artist’s paintings on exhibit throughout the café. Wish that weren’t the case.

No regrets. It was a beautiful day with the sun making an appearance after taking the week off and the crisp air felt wonderful as we strolled along a seawall after coffee. He drove me back to the ferry terminal and I awkwardly exited the vehicle, avoiding a misleading hug or kiss only to be sucker-punched with a bag he handed me. Two sloppily, but thoughtfully wrapped gifts for my dogs. Very sweet. What started with a dog ended with dogs. And, most likely, mutual frustration. He wanted more and, yes, so did I. Unfortunately, not with him.

Sometimes an encounter with animal poop isn’t good luck at all. Sometimes it’s just poop.

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.