THE HANGOVER HANGOVER

              He looked this good. And this bad.

Don’t get down. Don’t get down.

That’s what I told myself five minutes after my date with Gerry ended. The whole date, I’d looked for a spark but there was absolutely nothing behind those amazing blue eyes. And, really, I knew from the moment we introduced ourselves.

He had that look. Disappointment. From then on, it was simply an exercise in polite conversation. But even that seemed like a stretch. Within the first three minutes, he’d mentioned having a hard week at work, topped off by staying out until 3 a.m. with friends last night. “I had a massage this morning,” he said. “That just makes me sleepier.” Maybe it wasn’t That Look. Maybe he couldn’t engage at all. He added, “I’m a little hung over.”

Yes, this is not a reason to get down. Dud dates happen.

But as he droned on in a deep, monotone voice about his five years in Russia—how did he make that sound boring?—I couldn’t repress the self-criticism. You drove to Seattle for this?!

After an hour ticked by—during which he checked his phone three times—he hugged me goodbye and said, “I’ve got to go have a nap.” Clearly, I did nothing to stir him. It shouldn’t warrant more than a shrug. Never. Meant. To. Be.

Every date is a gamble. And it’s getting to the point where lottery tickets seem more hopeful. But a lottery ticket costs a couple bucks. This date, with travel time and two nights’ hotel,…well, I am here to enjoy other things. It’s fortunate that the date was early Saturday afternoon. Over and done. Plenty of time to salvage the weekend.

And I’ll do just that. Don’t get down. I was supposed to meet an architect tomorrow but he bowed out Thursday night, sounding sincerely apologetic. “I really am not a flake,” he said. Clearly, he’s been in the game a while, too. Major work deadlines for Monday and Tuesday. No time for any weekend fun. Just as well. I’d like to be with a guy who has some balance in life.

I’d already decided I was done with looking across the border for other dates. The grass is not greener. But there’s always the shopping. My little Macy’s shopping spree proved to be a quick pick-me-up. A false high, for sure, but it doesn’t come with a hangover. I’d say that puts me one step ahead of dear Gerry.

Hardly a consolation.

AFTER YOU

Maybe it was inevitable.

Who you follow matters. Don’t schedule Bob Dylan to sing after Mariah Carey. Don’t allow Paul Rudd to be a presenter after Brad Pitt. Don’t let, well, anyone dance after Alex Freaking Wong. (Google the guy. Start typing Alex Frea- and the search engine completes your thought. He’s earned that middle name.)

Some acts are too hard to follow.

After the promising first dates with Tim, the next first date with someone else was destined to disappoint. I don’t mean to compare. And, no, I don’t pine for Tim. (When a guy says he’s not attracted to you, be it the truth or not, it’s so much easier to move on—from the guy, if not the damaging statement.) What does linger is a sense of true connection that can come when two people meet. Something beyond strained pleasantries and the exchange of biological factoids.

I should be glad that Griffin filled the unenviable deli counter role: Next!

Griffin was never going to be the one. Sadly, I knew it as soon as I stepped out of the café’s bathroom—a pre-date last minute check to ensure I had no foreign substances stuck between my teeth. Yes, he resembled his photos,…to a degree. But degrees matter. I felt no attraction. I ordered a latté instead of a regular coffee to delay joining him at the table he’d staked out. I needed to shift gears from hopeful to hospitable. Griffin is a painter and, if nothing else, we could have a good chat about pursuing a passion in the arts. That would be satisfactory.

Of course, I can be too hospitable. Coffee turned to dinner followed by a visit at his place. No, not for that. (It feels like I’ll never experience that again. Sigh. The more time that passes, the more pressure there seems to be.) We went back to his place to see his art and his dog. At least, those were my reasons. He may have expected something else. Maybe that. (How would I know anyway?)

I should have ended the meet and greet when we were looking at dinner menus and he said, “Not to sound racist, but—“ I mean, really. Anything anyone says after that is going to be blatantly racist. A qualifier does not absolve the speaker of saying something racist. And, yes, he did. Something to do with too many Asians in Vancouver as a reason he’d never move there.

So there I was,…hospitable and lacking a backbone.

In the end, we spent three and a half hours together. He’d said, “So what do you want to do now?” Finally—yes, FINALLY!—I found my voice and replied, “I want to go.”  And I’d known the ending after three and a half seconds.

I suppose I should work on my exits.

But at least The Date After is done. I am reminded of what a bad first date is like. I have a buffer between that promising start from June and the search for tomorrow. I can start from scratch once again.