men

Man #42, The International Player and Minor Celebrity

Published May 3, 2013

My sons drove me to SeaTac Airport after K2′s game, helped me get my bag out of the car, gave me hugs, and left me at the curb for departures. It was a little after 8 p.m., so I checked in to my flight and proceeded through the maze of other travelers going through the scanners.

Once through, I still had an hour to kill before my flight took off, so I wandered around browsing shops I would never step foot in were in not for the fact that I was now a captive of the Port of Seattle and the Transportation Security Administration. I bought a copy of Bossypants, and finally decided that, since I hadn’t eaten before my son’s game, I should grab a bite before boarding my plane. I settled on fish and chips from Ivar’s, found a table, and sat down to eat and kill time on my phone. I checked in at SeaTac International Airport on my Facebook page, and within minutes I had a text message from Sam.

“Where are you going?”

“The Bahamas.”

“What?!”

“I have a date.”

“What? Who are you with? The Stalker?”

“You mean The Talker, as in all talk, no action? No, The International Player.”

“Who?”

“Man #42.”

“How long will you be gone? And when will you be back so we can interrogate you properly?”

“Three days. I’ll be back Monday night, late.”

“Ok. Have fun. Be safe, and you have to tell us all about it when you get home.”

“Ok. I will.”

And that was that. As I sat there eating my airport food and playing with my phone, I started thinking about how surreal this all seemed. Who would have ever thought that in following my therapist’s prescription I would end up going on a date with a stranger in The Bahamas? Blogging is a lonely business. Most of the time I don’t feel like anybody’s reading what I write, but I’ve been fielding more and more requests for guest posts and fighting off content thieves lately. At one point, Lauren had warned me, “I don’t think you realize this. To me, you’re just one of my friends, but to other people, you’re THE AUTHOR of My Dating Prescription!” One woman, newly introduced to me by a friend, during a conversation about dating, told me I HAD to read my blog. She did not know I was the author. ”That’s my blog,” I said, “I write that.”

“No way! My Dating Prescription?,” she asked, as she started pulling it up on her phone and reading it to me. “Are these your legs?”

“Yes, those are my legs.” Let’s just say; it’s pretty strange to have a stranger tell you that you HAVE to read your own writing and then proceed to read it to you.

Another friend, Paula, said women at her gym were talking about one of my posts in the locker room. When she mentioned that she knew me, they wanted to know all about me. Was I really as outspoken and sarcastic in real life as I am in my blog?

Pretty much.

Anyway, I was reflecting on these conversations and thinking about how I now found myself headed to The Bahamas to meet a total stranger. The International Player had simply contacted me through the email address I have on the blog. He could be an ax murderer for all I know. I had to keep my wits about me, but it was all part of a much bigger issue. I’m not prepared for celebrity. If Man #42 could contact me, then so could anyone else. Would that be ok? I don’t know. Did I have safety concerns? Absolutely. Men seem to either love or hate my blog, and the ones who hate it make up a very scary demographic. What should I do about my security as my blog becomes more popular? What if people start to recognize me? I’ve already had people come up to me out of nowhere and ask if I’m “the blogger.” It’s a very startling thing when it happens. I wondered if this is how Kurt Cobain felt when Nirvana blew up with the release of Nevermind.

But for the moment, I was alone and anonymous in the food court at SeaTac Airport. I decided that, regarding the perils of being a minor celebrity, I would respond by making sure I always wear makeup to the grocery store. No more sliding on my slippers and rolling down to the store for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in a ponytail and my University of Washington sweatspants. Maybe college freshman can get away with that, but as a snarky critic of male daters in Seattle, I can’t.

And as far as my date in The Bahamas…I would go and have a good time. As nervous as I was, I didn’t think I was headed for anything I couldn’t handle.

Posted in The Men | 14 Comments

Man #40, The Music Man

Published March 24, 2013

Dating continues although much more infrequently than before. I know I said I was going to take a break, but online dating is a little like a treadmill. Once you start the thing it’s hard to get off unless you bring it to a full stop. So, although traumatized by my date with Man #39, when I received an invitation to join Man #40 for a drink, I went. What can I say? I grew up in Montana, and when a horse bucks you off, you get right back on.

I believe the failure of my date with Man #40 is all mine. I wasn’t very present. However, I don’t know if it mattered that I was present or not. He didn’t seem particularly present either. This was truly one of those dates that was so boring, it’s difficult to write about it. What I wouldn’t give right now for a man asking me to put a finger up his ass! NOT! No, believe me; I just want a normal date, but you have to admit the crazies make for better blog fodder.

Anyway, about Man #40…I had seen his profile on OkCupid. He seemed intelligent and wasn’t bad looking. He was also a musician, and you know how I love my musicians. It was one of those magical, OkCupid moments when both individuals, browsing the internet from their separate locations, mutually rate each other four or five stars. The next thing you know, an automatically generated email arrives in your inbox announcing that you have chosen each other. It’s so romantic.

So, I get an email from Man #40.

“Hi, got a message that you chose me. Not sure what that means, but anyway, I like your profile and photos. Would you like to meet?”

I responded, “Well, that message means I rated your profile 4 out of 5 stars. (I rarely give out fives.) I liked your profile for your love of music, your height, and your photos. I play piano and love to sing. I would definitely like to meet.”

And there you have it. We very quickly moved on to making plans for a date.

We met at Sonrisa, a Mexican restaurant at the University Village. Always trying to save money, I suggested we meet for the late night happy hour, which started at 9 p.m. I happen to know their sangria is pretty good. Man #40 asked if we could make it earlier, like 8 p.m. and I was fine with that. An hour later he changed it to 8:30 p.m.

Even better.

Man #40 was already seated in the bar when I arrived, and I chose to sit next to him on the booth instead of sitting across from him. I don’t know if this seemed weird or not, but I don’t like having my back to the rest of the restaurant. The tables in the bar at Sonrisa are high, and the extra height makes me feel really vulnerable when my back is to everyone. I wasn’t trying to be forward; I was just trying to be comfortable. It wasn’t like I sat down next to him and started rubbing his thigh or anything. I just sat down next to him. I have no idea whether my proximity on this first date made him uncomfortable or not, but it’s possible.

I took off my coat and made myself comfortable. I could tell that Man #40 was as tall as I had expected, but he seemed much thinner in real life than he did in his pictures. This made me feel self-conscious about my weight, and I found myself wishing I could shrink right there in my seat. I’m pretty sure my body language gave this away. I’m not sure how, but the feeling was so strong; I was certain he was disappointed by my size.

Overall, he wasn’t unpleasant, just sort of withdrawn. In a way, he was sort of like The Interrogator but with a less obvious, more laid back style. He was definitely asking me interview questions, but he was trying to be more conversational about it.

The reason I take responsibility for the failure of the date is, first, because of the choice to sit next to him instead of across from him. The second reason is because I waited to order my sangria until happy hour started at nine. I tried to play it cool for the first fifteen minutes and act like I wasn’t sure what I was going to order. I kept looking at the menu when all along I knew I was going to order the sangria. Then as the time grew closer to 9 p.m. I actually instructed the waiter to put my drink order in at the stroke of nine so I’d get the happy hour price.

I know. Tell me. I’m cheap.

Thinking back on it, I’m positive this made a bad impression. I’m like one of those cheap bastards who won’t even buy me coffee. He probably either thought I was totally broke, which I am right now, or worse, he thought I was trying to hint that he should pay for the date, which I was not. Yes, I appreciate it when a man offers to pay, and it does make a good impression, but I always show up with money to take care of my check. Always. I just don’t see the point in spending $7.50 when with a little patience I can spend $5.

It’s a sickness.

Then, in the course of my interview, he mentioned that he was thinking about buying a house on Lake Washington so he could have a boat. Most women hearing this would probably start assuming he has some money and try to snag him, but no, not me. I blew it by commenting that boats are expensive. I didn’t say it in some obnoxious, angry way. I simply stated it matter-of-factly. I’m pretty sure this is what put the nail in the coffin for my date.

Soon after, he said his jaw hurt and that he needed to go home and take some ibuprofen. It was the equivalent of “I need to go home and wash my cat.” He paid the check, walked me out to the parking lot, said goodbye, and I haven’t seen him since. It’s too bad really, because if we had gone out at a different time, like not right after my nightmare date with Man #39, I might have been my more entertaining, charismatic self. As it was, he got the “I’m so sick of dating I could hurl” version.

I don’t deserve to hear from him again.

And with that I leave you with a quote from comedian, Judy Tenuta,

“How many of you have ever started dating because you were too lazy to commit suicide?”