One Date a Week and Get Tired Trying

Or When a Date Has Diarrhea...

Is this still Week 4? How do things get so serious so fast? D. (in NYC) and I are already on the topic of tragedies like family dying young and on my first date with The Curser the subject of abuse comes up. These dates were supposed to be fun! I wasn't supposed to actually feel anything like pure sadness and empathy. These men were supposed to be dates, guys, material for my blog. Suckers.

It shows that though all evidence points to the contrary, I am in fact human.

Date with The Curser. We decide to meet at Laurelhurst Market at 8pm so at 7:50 I drive over, which should be the exact amount of time to get there promptly. I decide to wear a dress, which I may need to employ for all future dates. This is because A) I look cute, I think, I hope, B) it's feminine and I've been known to wear fleece, and C) no need to match any articles of clothing together.

Park at 7:58 around the corner. Get a text from The Curser:

“Are you an early person or a late person?”

Cell says 7:59. “I'm an on time person.”

“I like this place.”

Okay....as I'm nearing the front door, wondering if we'll sit in front of each other, glass of wine in each our hands, candle flickering between us and text the whole night through.

“I'm at the bar,” he writes again.

Should I write “Ok” or let it be? I snap my phone shut, turn it off, and walk in. The restaurant is buzzing with people, food, perfect overhead lighting, on every table slabs of meat, glasses of wine; the whole place is shiny and busy, a perfect date spot. The bar is tucked away, slightly divided from the rest of the place and I make my way to the bar. The Curser is cute and polite (stands when I approach, offers a seat, no curse word in sight). He's an enormous person, years of rugby in his past, his shoulders go on for miles. There are more of these men in the Pacific Northwest, than New York City. I went out with many men in NYC who were shorter than me though always claimed to be 5'10” (impossible when I'm 5'4”). The Curser has got to be 6'2” at least, but it's pointless to me, height has never been my thing. It's his width, his shoulders, his presence. Does it scare me? His wingspan, his arms and chest...it's like eating with a giant, but in a good way.

He's funny. He makes me laugh. He talks too much. But they all do. At least he acknowledges it and tells himself (out loud) to stop and asks me specific stories and listens well. Like the Russian guy, he tells a dramatic story: his eyes get huge; his face grows animated; he uses hand gestures. It's definitely a lovely dinner. Yes, there are some curses. Yes, some odd jumps of logic on his part that elude me. But the curses are fairly benign, more along the lines of shit and jerk rather than fuck and bitch, so I say it's okay. He does not say pussy, which would be totally gross. I do think about D. in NYC and the level of intimacy and the romance brewed up already. Our relationship is percolating. He's got me up at 5:30am writing him tall tales and he's writing from his iphone all over the city...but still thousands of miles away, bodies of water, mountains separate, tragedy awaits...

I too can be dramatic! There is something amiss with The Curser, aside from the obvious cursing, and I can't put my finger on it. Something childlike and hidden. He has a little boy's haircut, reasoning and story-telling. He combs his fingers through his bangs. Both endearing and little boyish and I can't help remembering how he feels his ex-girlfriend “tricked” him.

I won't divulge much else, since I like him and we had a nice time and maybe I'm reading into things and maybe, like L. mentioned that others suggested, maybe I'm looking for excuses to go back East. That could be right. I don't claim to understand myself entirely and I'll look to readers for insights. Like a polling process or feedback.

We have a mishap when ordering and the food arrives, which I believed we'd be sharing and The Curser asks, “This is it?” I explain to him that yes, he said let's share so I reiterated that to the waiter. TC says that when he said share he meant that we'd each get a main course dish and swap portions, not share one single meal together. I tell him that in girl-speak share means one dish. The waiter comes and TC tries to say we wanted two dishes then I cut in and apologize and say it was all my fault, because in a way it is. I did say to the waiter “one dish to share.” But why TC didn't interrupt me, I'll never know. I have to wonder if this happens to him a lot. Because it doesn't usually happen to me. When it comes to food, I am very clear.

So, the date ends and we stand, unceremoniously in the brightly lit parking light (tsk tsk Laurelhurst Market, NOT romantic) and though I've thought of D. once or twice or seven times on the date, and though The Curser, I imagine, has thought of his ex who he explained earlier he was really in love with, we still seem to enjoy each other. We bond over our East Coast roots, our roles as counselors, and we make each other laugh.

We stand facing each other.

“Is that your rig?” he asks me.

“You mean car? No, I parked around the corner.” I had assumed he'd walk me to my car and there's be a kiss or a hug or a gesture to indicate romantic intent or the lack their of.

“I have to go to the bathroom! Good meeting you!” He shakes my hand, jogs around me and back into the restaurant. I'm left standing in the middle of a parking lot. What just happened? The only explanation is diarrhea. Alternatively, nerves, and possibly both. I realize it isn't easy being a guy.

PS: Got a text later that night saying, “Thanks for the great company” and I agreed, wrote back. Perhaps there will not be 32 first dates after all.