Bad first dates make for easy decisions. No thanks. Never again. Have a nice life. Sometimes I’ve meant that last part; sometimes I’ve thought he doesn’t deserve the sentiment.
A bad date is not a total loss. It makes for a story to tell my friend Ron when we meet next for pizza. (Poor Ron.) He professes to have zero interest in dating but has politely listened for years to my dating adventures--usually too dull to be true “adventures”. I tell myself that sharing a bad episode is his reward for sitting through talk about all the others. (I’m thinking I need to pay for his pizza next time. That might be a better reward.)
Bad dates also make for fun blog posts, my one-sided smears of a perhaps misunderstood man becoming a distracting read for three or four people who might say to themselves, “Thank god he got away from that one.” No need to probe whether the “he” in that thought is me or the other guy.
Good dates also have predictable follow-ups. Of course, I’m going to send another message…unless he, fingers crossed, messages me first, preferably before I even get home. Eagerness is sexy when it arises in the context of mutual interest. Sometimes the good date leads to a second date; other times--sigh--it leads to nothing. No reply. Checking my inbox on the dating site dozens of times doesn’t change the result. Mr. Right becomes Mr. Out of Sight.
Sometimes I share this unfortunate episode with Ron, but often we just talk about the pizza crust. Ron is a foodie and can talk at length about crusts. I listen as intently as I can. I owe him that for having his ear when I unload about a bad date. I also often blog the good first dates that lead to nothing. I tell myself that stories laced with dejection, anguish, bewilderment and resentment make for a good read. Maybe it’s a pick-me-up for them. “Well, at least I’m not him!”
As for the good dates that lead to an encore, I share some and keep mum about others. The ones I’m tight-lipped about tend to be those I think might lead to something longer term. I don’t want to jinx things. I also don’t want there to be a trail for my 💖Future Husband💖 to read three years later. “What do you mean you didn’t like my flannel shirt? And what’s the big deal if I ate three-fourths of your scone after I asked if I could have a taste? The wedding’s off!” I get no credit for mentioning his puppy-dog brown eyes.
The hardest first dates to walk away from are the in-betweeners. Nothing bad about the occasion. The guy made an effort in picking a shirt without a ketchup stain (or is that blood…his or someone else’s?). He didn’t talk about his top five Trump rallies he’d attended in the past year. (Not even one!) Alas, a nice shirt and no professed affinity for a certain election loser do not suffice to constitute a match.
When I mention one of these dates to Ron, he just keeps eating his pizza. He doesn’t ask, “Why don’t you go out again?” He doesn’t say, “I’ve had to listen to so many of these stories. Maybe you’re too picky.” He also knows not to say, “Perhaps you should look elsewhere for a relationship. Pizza will never let you down.” It would be a compelling argument. Bad pizza is better than most good dates.
Enter Mr. Saturday Night. (Technically, Mr. Saturday Afternoon.)
Our coffee meet-and-greet extended for ninety minutes. We laughed, he looked fine, he was nice. I really, really wanted to like him in that Carly Rae Jepsen kind of way. As I walked him to his car, the goodbye got cut off. Had this not been the COVID era, I might have hugged him but, even though we were both vaccinated, it just didn’t seem the thing to do. He stood in the bike lane, turned toward me, saying, “That was fun. I’d be into--”
I cut him off. “Biker coming!” I swear I didn’t plan that. He stepped toward me instead of toward his car, but the moment was gone. Further pleasantries were cordial but nothing more. “Thanks for driving out this way.” “Ride your bike safely home.” “Have a great evening.” “Take care.”
Pedaling home, I figured I’d message him. Nice guys--as I believe both of us are--deserve a second date. But my mind kept asking, Why?
I knew I wasn’t interested in him in a dating sense. He’s more like the type of guy I’d meet at a backyard barbecue, the spouse of a co-worker or a new boyfriend of a friend of mine. We’d chat for ten minutes and I would walk away to get a bit more potato salad, feeling very happy for my co-worker/friend. They found a good guy. And that’s the thing…I don’t tend to want to date other people’s spouse or boyfriend. Thumbs-up does not mean, let’s date if your current gig doesn’t work out. I can be happy for them, even happy for myself that I made it through a conversation with a stranger and it seemed to go well for both of us. We can chat again at next year’s barbecue.
After a couple of hours, I logged onto the dating site. By then, it was clear to me. I was hoping there wouldn’t be a message. There wasn’t. Relief. The guy’s not gaga. (I quickly quashed feeling a tad insulted.) Next morning, no message. Twenty-four hours later, no message…not from him, not to him. Sometimes, after a middling date, this is the best kind of match.
Nice enough…but not enough.
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