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London Calling

I know I’m overdue for a post. Hopefully this is a juicy one...

Right before the holidays, a guy from eHarmony sent me a communication request. He was 36, 6’ tall, lived on the UES, brown hair and eyes, worked as a “fitness manager” (whatever that is) but looked more like a bookworm than a gym rat.

On a scale from 1-10 with 10 being the best, he was about a 4. But then I read that that he was British. Hmmm. That did change things because I do love me some British accent -- even if awful teeth and pale skin often ride shotgun. 

Suddenly, he was a solid 6.

So I tore myself away from my first love (TV) and wrote him back. We went through the normal communication stages, and I began to notice a pattern.

We had absolutely nothing in common.

I like to sightsee in big cities, he thought camping in the wilderness was a swell way to spend a weekend. I like to cook big dinners, he thought a protein shake was a meal. I like going to concerts and movies, he thought the only events worth going to involved a football (and by football, I mean soccer ball).

Then London Calling and I talked on the phone.

Camping, shakes, and soccer be damned -- I was wooed by that accent!

I agreed to meet him for a drink and went through my traditional pre-date ritual. (What? You aren’t familiar? Oh, sit back and enjoy -- it’s a true window into my neuroses…)

First, I dump a pile of underwear on my couch. I should clarify: this is CLEAN underwear. It is 100% MORE probable that Sarah Palin can see Russia from her house than it is that I would EVER invite a guy up to my apartment on the first date. But still, I like having this insurance policy. A couch full of unmentionables means nobody’s making it past the lobby. Period. (I’m sure there’s a joke there, so let’s pretend I made one.)

Second, I put on a pair of heels. This puts me at 6’ tall and allows me to verify that my date is as tall as he says he is and that he meets/exceeds my 6’ height requirement. I know, I KNOW, totally, completely, unbelievably superficial. But it beats carting around one of those signs you see at amusement parks which state you must be this tall to ride this ride. That would just be awkward and gives the wrong impression! I’m not that kind of girl (see my undie-covered couch).

Third, I puff up my hair – but just on one side. Being a Jersey Girl with a thick mane, this is not tough. The “wall of hair” is an essential weapon in my dating arsenal (recall its use to block the view of my date’s public flossing). This provides ample cover should I ever find myself on the receiving end of an unwanted kiss goodnight.

Are you exhausted yet? Me too.

BTW if I’ve ever gone on a date with someone who’s reading this post, I NEVER did this with you (yes I did).

Anyway, I got to the bar first. It was pretty crowded, so I stayed by the door, purposely situated near a squirrely girl who struck me as the type who might keep a bag of drain hair or toenail clippings in her nightstand.

Needless to say, it was a flattering adjacency.

He came in a few minutes later and instantly recognized me from my pics. We wandered away from the bar and grabbed a table by the front window. Looking back, it’s possible the people already sitting there weren’t ready to leave yet, but I was in heels and my feet were swelling by the second. No doubt, I’d have gotten full-on kankles if we stood all night. Besides, I’d just verified that he checked out as 6’ tall so we were in the clear.

I ordered a vodka tonic, he ordered a warm, dark beer that was not Guinness. Then we began to talk. And talk. And talk. THREE hours, another round of drinks, and a trip to the loo later, it was really time to go.

Now, here’s the confusing thing about me: Just because we talked for 3 hours doesn’t actually mean we hit it off.

We still had nothing in common. Actually, no we had ONE thing in common. He had a face and so do I. Otherwise… nada. But I could talk the paint off a wall, and he, having just met me, could not be expected to know such a thing.  He mistakenly thought this was a good first date.

To be fair, it WAS better than the vast majority of my other horrific first dates. Plus, I DID hang on his every word because I loved his accent. AND I laughed at his dry humor, because I am polite and also because I couldn’t exactly hear everything he was saying above the noisy crowd. And he laughed too! Or maybe it was a cough. I couldn’t tell.

I can see why he would have gone in for a smooch, but I don’t think I have to tell you what happened next…

Still dazed from his faceful of hair, he muttered something about doing it again, and stumbled off. I felt bad.  I tried to keep an open mind -- really I did -- but you can’t fake chemistry. And we had none. Which is why I felt even worse, when he texted the next morning telling me what a nice time he had and how he hoped we could do it again next week.

Again? Oh no! Ugh. I’m horrible.

I texted him back saying I enjoyed meeting him too (this was true). I said it was unfortunate we can’t meet up (this was NOT true). I said I would be away visiting my parents in FL the following week (this was true).

He wished me a good trip, and I forgot all about it. Until Christmas Day. My phone buzzed and it was a text from him. He wanted to wish me a merry Christmas. Why couldn’t he be a Grinchy Scrooge? And why couldn’t I find him remotely attractive? And WHY didn’t I ever want to camp or check myself for ticks?

I texted him back and wished him a jolly holiday. I got no response. And because I’m so destined to be alone for all eternity, in my twisted mind that was a GOOD thing. Ahhh. Until, he texted again. This time, on New Year’s Eve. He wanted to wish me a happy 2012, and asked when would I be back in NYC?


I wrote him back. Happy New Year, I said. But I didn’t answer his question about when I’d be home. That’s the last I heard from him. The other day, he closed our match on eHarmony.  Aaand I feel awful.

I know I didn’t handle that right. He was a nice guy, it’s not his fault we didn’t click. And now, I’m certain I have a big fat ugly ball of bad dating karma waiting for me. You just know there’s going to be a tall guy with beautiful teeth and a tan who reads to blind old people WHILE he’s curing cancer AND rescuing kittens from trees. He’s going to blow me off big time. And I’ll totally deserve it.


Soooo that was my last first date. Nailed it!

tags: dating, polls


Chris said...

You are alive!!! Hilarious per usual but 1 question....... why only puff your hair on one side??

Apollonia said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Apollonia said...

Ahhhh!! the good old 'nacher humour (yes, humour) hasn't waned a bit!

Jenny From The 'Brook said...

Thanks for voting, everybody! Looks like "gone out with him again" eeeked by for the win.

Chris: Both sides would be too much. It's like a go/no-go, the way a trucker's mudflaps say "Grateful" on one side and "Dead" on the other. My puffy side provides an ample barrier for unwanted smooches, my smooth side says, "Yoohoo, I'm over here!"

"Apollonia": Aw, thanks! Cheerio!