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| Not actually me. I don't look this good in a dress. |
On occasion, a reader will suggest that I
am too picky. How could I possibly go on so many coffee dates—Is it beyond a
hundred yet?—and come up empty? I ask that of myself, too. Am I brushing people
off too quickly? Should I settle for something less?
I think I give people a chance. It’s rare,
however, that an initial meh turns
into anything better. There are stories of people being repulsed at first sight
and somehow finding love. I don’t find that unreasonable. There’s some truth to
that expression about a thin line between love and hate. These are people who
at least get our attention. But it’s hard to move anywhere from meh. It’s a relationship gutter. Nothing
grows there.
Recently I met up with a handsome man who
grew up in Venezuela and Spain. He’s traveled the world and speaks many
languages. Seems to have a lot going for him. I typically get along extremely
well with people from different backgrounds. The differences in culture and
perspective fascinate me as well as the commonalities reflected in good people
regardless of where they were raised. And, while I contend I don’t have a type,
I am easily enchanted with Latin men.
On our first meeting, it was a warm
Vancouver day and the bakery was not air conditioned so we grabbed our drinks
and sat on a shady bench in a nearby park. We talked for a couple of hours.
Mostly, he talked. Much of the talk was ranting. For instance, when I said I
worked in education, he immediately went on for ten minutes about how
unmotivated teachers can be. Sure, he had some good points based on personal
experience, but it’s generally not a good idea to attack your date’s profession
right after “Hello.”
The opinions continued to fly over a range
of subjects and I realized I had shifted my body into the arm of the bench, as
if trying to get away from him. Not a good sign. But it was clear that he was
attracted to me and I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was
talking too much because he was nervous. Maybe he was trying to impress me with
his thinking. Maybe he didn’t normally drink coffee.
And so when he called and left a message a
few hours later about how much he enjoyed our time and how he’d like to get
together again, I shrugged and said sure. With the introductions out of the
way, maybe things would get better.
But they didn’t. As he rambled on, I felt
awful for extending things. He clearly dressed up for our lunch and, yes, he
continued to give off signs of being attracted to me. I buckled down and tried
to get invested. This is a guy that
actually likes you. Give him a chance. Even when we talked about things we
had in common—writing; running—I simply couldn’t connect.
We walked and Ralph suggested a drink after
lunch—no caffeine whatsoever. Sure. Could he see me shrug? It got to the point
where I was biding my time until the alarm on my phone would go off, reminding
me that I’d reached the two-hour limit on my parking meter. My escape. But even
then, I didn’t bolt. We ambled sloooowly toward my car. Was he trying to
prolong things? With a hug, we parted ways and, as I started the ignition, I
felt relieved to be alone once more. (The loneliness seeps in later.)
An hour afterward, I received a text. “Hi,
James! Just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed my time with you today. Hopefully
you did too. It would be great to meet again. Enjoy the rest of the day!”
Two exclamation marks. (I don’t take
punctuation lightly.) I felt a sickening feeling in my stomach, the same kind I
felt whenever a professor would pass back assignments and I had a sudden fear of
a big red “F”. This was a worse kind of failure because now I had to be the
messenger. I fretted. I mopped my floors. I ate a bag of popcorn. I even
returned my mother’s phone call.
And then I texted: “Hi Ralph. Nice to see
you again. You’re an attractive man with a fascinating background.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite feel a connection. Wanted to, but sometimes
it’s not there. Good luck with your work application. Really seems like a great
path for you.”
No exclamation marks.
I pressed “Send” and sighed. The deed was
done. Hopefully he didn’t feel as badly as I did. But I know how rejection
stings. I am all too aware how it butt-kicks already fragile self-esteem. Ralph
is in his forties. I know how another polite “No thank you” disheartens. What
if “meant to be” refers to alone rather
than with Mr. Right or with Mr. Tolerable or with Mr. Who Happens to Be Breathing?
So I listened to the “too picky”
accusation. I gave a guy another chance. And now I only feel worse. Like a
heel. I hurt someone, however temporarily. I feel no closer to finding a soul
mate. Just farther off-course. The pickings get smaller.
