THE IN-BETWEENERS: What to Do after a Middling First Date

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.

 

A DATING THREESOME

Things started out well enough.

I do like my oat milk lattes!   

After a week of mindless texting (Yes, I’m still fine. And you?), Alan and I finally met in person. He’d suggested meeting for coffee so I came up with a place in between where we both lived—my regular writing spot on weekend mornings. I arrived early and it felt odd being in a familiar place at a different time. Same employees who know me by name even though I only know them as “you” and “you”. (Like Starbucks, they ask your name when they take your order.) I sat one table over from my usual spot and let my decaf oat milk latte sit as I passed time paging through a travel book I’d bought for an upcoming trip.

Alan sauntered in wearing an MTV ball cap, jeans and a champagne colored polo shirt that showed off bulging biceps. Instead of lining up to place his order, he sat at the stool opposite me, seemingly settled in for our conversation. Yet this unsettled me. I didn’t want to start talking and then have it interrupted after a minute.

“Are you getting something?” I asked.

He smiled and said, “If I have coffee now, I won’t be able to sleep.”

Fair enough. “My drink’s a decaf,” I said. It didn’t register as a suggestion. And so we sat and stared at one another, presumably both of us looking for an entry point into a conversation. He said something but I couldn’t hear. They try to create a different vibe in the cafe at night, louder music and all.

I remained uncomfortable, unable to shake an unreasonable self-consciousness that I’d brought in a freeloader date to a familiar haunt of mine. What would “you” and “you” think? It only makes sense that if you go somewhere, you order something.

“So you’re not having anything?”

“I thought they’d have beer.” I squinted at the menu posted high on the wall behind the counter. Nope. No beer. A coffee place that serves coffee. And here I’d thought I’d done well as the location scout after his week-old text, “How about we meet for coffee?”

And just to clarify, I turned a question into a statement: “So you’re not having anything.”

“I’m good.”

I wasn’t. “How ‘bout I drink just a little of this and then we go someplace else?”

“There’s a bar across the street,” he said, smiling once again.

There was some stilted conversation as I took a few latte chugs. A risky move. If I consume hot drinks too quickly, it tends to seep out in sweat. Not a good first date look. Even knowing this, my family’s belief, Don’t be wasteful, won out. I flashed forward in my mind to an hour later, Alan a slurring, drunken mess and me sitting uncomfortably in a slightly too tight tee, being overtaken by growing pit stains. Maybe the vision should have prompted me to call it a night. Nice to meet you. So sorry, I feel a migraine coming on. Or something like that.

Okay,...so it could have been worse.  

But no. We stepped across the street to the bar only to discover that it closed in half an hour. What bar closes at nine at night?! We walked a block and slipped into another bar that didn’t close until ten. (I’m not much of a night person these days and apparently neither is my neighborhood.) I made the mistake of letting Alan choose his seating preference. As I took my seat facing the wall, I noticed a dead pheasant fastened to red brick and then gazed left and right to see a taxidermy zoo keeping the bird company. So not my thing. There would be no gazing this way and that from me. To cope with The Wall of the Dead I’d have to keep my focus on Alan. There’s a plus side to mounted roadkill after all.

The conversation on the walk over hadn’t gone anywhere. Can’t really form a bond over the fact that neither of us likes heavy metal. After we ordered drinks, I tossed out the standard “What kind of work do you do?” Perhaps it was out of nervousness but this led to him launching into spouting off a series of jobs he’d gone through, none seeming to last more than a month. So he won the I’ve-had-more-jobs-than-you contest, but I wasn’t exactly impressed. Still, he was currently employed (though thinking of quitting), which is more than I could say for myself. Can I say I’m a writer if I’ve only had one paid gig this year and I keep being told, “The check is in the mail”?

Alan (wisely) switched the subject, asking me, “How long ago was your last relationship?” It’s a dangerous first date question. Haven’t we all heard that you steer clear of talking about exes in the early going? I simply answered that it had been almost two years. Gosh, time flies. There was no follow-up and, knowing basic dating rules, I didn’t volunteer anything more. I simply did the courteous thing, turning the question to him.

And apparently Alan didn’t know the basic dating rules. That or things were too raw. His four-year relationship only ended three months ago. And they were still living together in the same condo until the end of the month.

Awkward.

From then on, my role was that of passive psychotherapist. I had to nod every once in a while and furrow my brow once or twice. Alan had a lot to unload. As he got more comfortable (inversely related to my growing discomfort), he replayed his side of conversations he’d had with his ex, pre- and post-breakup. Alan’s eye contact shifted from me to his ex who, in Alan’s mind, had taken a seat just to my right. Whole scenes played out, nothing mercifully condensed, as Alan laid his case against the ex who chatted up three different guys online while they were still together. Bad ex, no question about it.

I was relieved when we’d both finished our drink and figured I’d flag the server, take care of the bill and flee. But, in addition to having to avoid staring at dead animals on the wall, my seating position left me with the disadvantage of not being able to see the waiter. Alan raised a hand, tapped his empty glass and round two was on the way.

Please help me.

Clearly Alan had more to get out of his system and I knew we’d be there until the waiter leaned over and said, “Guys, we’re closing.” It’s true...sometimes time really does tick by slower than others.

I got to hear about more transgressions of the ex. How he loaded the ladle in the dishwasher was a major issue. (How often does one use a ladle anyway?!) Still, the most hurtful post-breakup behavior of the ex was that he’d stopped including Alan’s dirty clothes when doing laundry while Alan still included the ex’s undies and such when he loaded the washer. Alan continued to state his case to the invisible guy on my right as I unsuccessfully tried to will his drink glass to empty faster. I am no David Copperfield.

Yes, as it turns out, having bars that close early in my neighborhood is a good thing. As we walked the single block to where I knew we’d head off in different directions, Alan stroked my forearm and patted my back. Asking for feedback about “us”, I thought I was pretty clear, saying I didn’t feel a connection and adding that his immediate focus should perhaps be on moving out and settling into his own place. I was about to say, “Good luck with all that” when he started pressing for when we could go out again. Suddenly I created the busiest weekend ahead of me that I’ve had in years. Dinners. A hike. Helping a friend with a plumbing problem. (Me?!)

“Well, I’ll be in touch,” he said. Sure, sure. I was free after a goodbye hug.

Alan sent two texts later that night, pressing to nail down next time. I knew the best thing to do was wait. Death by text came the next day as I sat in the cafe where the night had begun. Let this be my writing place once again and nothing more.