After my date with the truck-driving, computer-hating, anti-food misanthrope I called the dating service and really let them have it. I had provided feedback after each of my previous failed dates, but felt fairly justified in going a little crazy on them after my date with Scott*. The service had the nerve to reply that they had made sure that he at least liked dogs since that seemed to be my main criteria. With dangerously rising blood pressure I laid out for about the 10th time the minimum criteria:
1. Single (as in not married. No negotiations). If divorced must have been divorced for at least one year. I am not looking to be someone’s reentry back into dating life. Prefer no kids from previous relationships as complicates things, but am somewhat negotiable on this point.
2. Employed. Likes his job. Can take care of self.
3. Lives alone, maybe with a roommate. Not only can support self financially but can do his laundry, cooking, cleaning, etc. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy but fairly self-sufficient is an attractive quality.
4. Sense of humor. As in he has to have one.
5. Intelligent
6. Has to at least tolerate, if not actively like dogs.
After that, I’d pretty much agree to meet anyone, at least for a drink or a cup of coffee. I don’t expect the service to be able to know if there will be chemistry between us but the men they’re picking for me to meet should at least meet the minimum criteria. The girl with the service agreed and apologized profusely as I described the demeanor, “witticisms”, and appearance of my latest date; she then swore that the service could and would do better. She carried on at length about all the many suitable men that she had lined up for me with glowing descriptions and assures me that she would contact me the next day with the first candidate.
Surprisingly the next date did meet all the minimum criteria. Mark* did something with mortgages that I never quite understood and as this was during the housing boom, he was doing pretty well for himself. He was decent looking, could carry a conversation without alarming me or the waiters serving us, lived on his own, and had a dog. He was blissfully normal which was nice for a change. We dated for a month or two and had perfectly normal, average type dates where neither of us feared for our lives or sanity. Sadly that was all there was to recommend them – sparks flew for neither of us and we decided to stop seeing each other before anything got too serious.
The next guy seemed even more promising. He actually was funny, lively, and fun to be around. I should have realized, however, as he described his love of “extreme” anything, that it might carry over into an area of his life that would make me squeamish. He was a DJ, had spiky white-blond hair, and had this kind of devilish glint in his eye. We went out a few times and he kept me entertained with stories of his adventures traveling to exotic locations, snowboarding, base jumping, etc.
It was on our third or fourth date that he took me to a pretty swanky restaurant. The food was great; they even made their own cinnamon ice cream. Mmmmm…. But I digress. We were enjoying an after dinner coffee and dancing around discussions of our histories. He mentioned that he had been engaged; I wasn’t sure how to respond but he’d been fairly outgoing and open so I asked him what had happened. He said that it just hadn’t worked out and gazed off into the distance, looking a little morose. I fidgeted a bit, feeling embarrassed that I had asked the question, when he looked me in the eyes and said that she decided she was a lesbian but that it ended up working out ok as that was the first threesome he had ever had and it opened his eyes to a whole world of possibilities.
I wasn’t really sure what the proper etiquette was for when your date, who you don’t know too well, tells you that his ex was a lesbian and that he loves threesomes. Particularly when you’re at a nice restaurant and the waitress has overheard everything and almost spilled her entire tray in shock. I think I made some sort of sound like “hmm” or maybe “huh.” I then became highly alarmed as he looked at me, then at the waitress who had shuffled nervously off to another table, then back at me and raised one eyebrow in a questioning manner, and then winked. I was afraid to excuse myself to the ladies room, fearing that he would believe I was off making arrangements with her for later. I think I opted for nervously coughing and saying I had forgotten that I had to be up early the next day and could we get the check.
The journey for him to drive me from the restaurant back to my house was one of the more awkward car rides I’ve taken. For the life of me I can’t remember what the hell we talked about. I think I blathered on about the weather or sports, pretended to check my voicemail for a solid five minutes, and then there were some serious awkward pauses. He attempted to contact me a few times after that but I was way too squeamish to attempt another conversation. Thus ended my relationship with DJ 3-way and now whenever I hear an innocent voice-over on the radio I wonder as to the sexual histories of the announcers and contemplate penning a note to Dear Abby to ask what the etiquette is for gracefully turning down a threesome.
My next date was with Steve* the ardent young Republican. He was pleasant, extremely well-mannered, treated me well, could hold up his end of a conversation, did not hate my dog, and never suggested that I have a threesome with a waitress. Our sense of humors didn’t gel, however, and I wasn’t attracted to him. Although younger than me, he was way more mature in terms of being highly driven and motivated. Plus all of his friends were well-to-do older Republicans who worked the charity circuit more ferociously than most people worked their 9-to-5’s. We went out for a few weeks but I was hoping for something more than platonic evenings with someone who I disagree with most of the things they hold dear.
The service then fell short of my first criteria by setting me up with a guy who not only had been divorced for less than two months but who’s major hobby was talking poorly about his ex-wife. Surly Scott* could not say enough about the insane mess that was his ex-wife. Within the first 20 minutes or so he had convinced me not only that she was crazy (for marrying him) but that he had quite a few issues himself. I managed to flee the bar after 25 minutes total.
After this date I thought it appropriate to call up the dating service and remind them of the basic criteria. The woman I spoke with practically wept she was so mortified for their lack of attention to detail. She then hand-picked me the guy who at that point was the most attractive one the service had set me up with that far. This was my first metrosexual.
Metrosexual Matt* was highly groomed. He dressed way better than I ever had and was beyond fastidious in his appearance. A rep for a pharmaceuticals company, Matt* had a very posh condo at the Inner Harbor, loved to travel, loved fine wines, and knew which designers were in and out of style. He had to have had a manicure prior to our first date and told me he was so obsessed with his weight that his friends called him “manorexic.” Sadly at this point, he seemed like a real catch and I probably would have dated him for a while but I think I was not fashionable enough to suit his tastes. In retrospect it was probably a case of all’s well that ends well, as I find that I grow annoyed when it takes a date longer to get ready than it takes for me; plus I enjoy good food and libations way too much to be with a man who is constantly counting calories for both of us.
Next up will be a man overly fond of cologne searching for a baby mama, the date that almost wasn’t, and what I thought was one of my better first dates. If I have the energy to plow through them I may finish up this particular dating service on my next entry, although I think the “parking lot pisser” may deserve his own place in the limelight. (*Name has been changed.)
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