Once upon a time there was a weary, heartsick Princess who had been wandering alone for years in the land of earls of mediocrity and dukes of douchebaggery searching tirelessly…except for when she had better stuff to do like travel, yoga, bake, volunteer with her dog, drink mint juleps, go the spa, or attend roller derby bouts. The Princess had looked hither and yon for a Prince – not just any prince, but a Prince who was single, mentally balanced, intelligent, kind, with some semblance of a sense of humor, and at least minimally attractive. Also the Prince should live in his own castle and not with his mommy; or if not a castle, at least a decent apartment. Initially the Princess thought that these were reasonable qualities but after surviving date after date where at times she felt lucky to escape with her life, health, and some of her sanity, the Princess began to despair. The Princess vowed that if she met a Prince imbuing even some of the qualities she once thought not all that rare, that they would ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.
That is just a fairy tale of course; a real life happy ending for this particular Princess has not been written so succinctly or neatly.
In all my dating trials and travails, there are really two guys that I totally kick myself for not feeling all mushy about. The first was Phil*, winner of the title of nicest guy on the planet (see “Beware the Ides of March”). The second guy was the first of two professors named Mike* that I dated in 2010; henceforth he will be referred to as The Professor or Professor Hickey.
The Professor was everything I was looking for. He was tall (ok I know that wasn’t one of the qualities previously listed but after dating the Angry Midget, tall seemed good), extremely intelligent, an interesting conversationalist, funny, and attractive. He was a professor at a small college and was working on a book. Our first date flew by – there was witty repartee, lengthy discussions about numerous non-confrontational topics, and he seemed wicked normal and totally lacking a rage problem. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel any sparks or hints of attraction but it was a first date and sometimes nerves can play a part. He was a perfect gentleman, said he would like to see me again and would be calling in a few days, and then asked if it was ok if he gave me a hug.
Our next several dates took place much along the same lines. We talked on the phone and emailed, made plans to meet for dinner, movies, etc. It was all good. But it was just good. It wasn’t great. Still, I remembered all too well the sorts of guys I had been dating before and thought to myself that I was lucky to meet such a gem.
The problem was that I couldn’t be sure there was absolutely no chemistry. I couldn’t be certain because the Professor kept our dates extremely platonic. Each date ended with him saying what a great time he had, asking when he could see me again, promising to call, and then a hug or a firm handshake. While not a brazen hussy, I decided after the third date to take matters into my own hands. It seemed absurd - we had to at least kiss to see if there was ‘something’ there. So I kinda threw my head into the path of his head as he was coming in for a hug. It was not my most graceful of moments and I’m lucky I didn’t actually knock him or myself unconscious. The end result was that he almost kissed my forehead and then gave me a weird high five as we parted ways.
I’d heard of guys who think of themselves as gentlemen and try not to rush a date, but this was becoming more and more ridiculous. Did he even like me? Here I was practically assaulting him, and he gives me a high five? I was pretty sure I would never hear from him again.
But no, we went out five or six more times over the course of several weeks. He called almost every day and was beginning to get a little mushy when ending the conversation. I did not take it as a good sign when I found his endearments irritating, but figured I should resist becoming too easily annoyed and try to tough this one out. In spite of all his vocal mushiness, he remained completely platonic on our dates.
Then we went to see Avatar. I was not really in favor of seeing this movie but he had chosen some romantic chic flick and I thought that might really push my irritation factor over the edge. Avatar seemed safer. He even attempted some physical contact during the movie and held my hand. Here’s where I’m not sure exactly what happened. It was either the 3D movie or my growing aversion to his mushiness, but I became severely nauseated. I mean severely. I kept trying to wrench my hand back but he was like a vice. Then he started rubbing my hand and I had to fight not to vom.
Although I knew the feeling of wanting to vom on a date was not a good sign, I decided to press onward. Really the Professor was a great guy and I was crazy not to be interested in him. So what if we had a totally platonic relationship! It would be sort of sweet. I had already decided that I wanted to platonic-marry Paula Deen’s son just so I could have her for my mother-in-law; how would this be any different? Ok, it would not be nearly as awesome because in spite of how wonderful The Professor’s mother is, there is only one Paula.
But I digress…this brings us to a few days before I have to leave on a work trip. We’d been on countless dates with a total lack of action and that just seemed to be how things would continue until the end of time. This night, however, things turned out a little differently. I don’t know if he got jealous by the fact that at dinner my hair stylist (from Turkey, cute, straight, obscene flatterer and pursuer of tips) practically tried to make out with me when we ended up at the same restaurant or if we had just reached the magic number of dates. But when the Professor drove me home after dinner, he sort of lunged for me. It wasn’t frightening at all…just…I don’t know…not good. Very not good. The Professor was a bit older than me so I assumed he had plenty of experience in the kissing department, but what happened distinctly reminded me of junior high where the guy practically gives you a tonsillectomy because this is the first time he’s ever attempted to stick his tongue down a girl’s throat. It was a bit awkward and kind of bumpy.
And then he gave me what has got to be the most permanent and ridiculous of hickeys ever given to a woman. I firmly believe that hickeys beyond the age of 15 are just plain wrong. Even more so when you give one to a woman in her 30’s in the middle of her throat in a location that cannot be hidden by the biggest of cowl neck sweaters or the most swaddly of scarves. And it is definitely unsat when you give the hickey in such a manner that it lasts FIVE WHOLE DAYS. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. He then accidentally wrenched my grandmother’s earring out of my ear, where it became lost in his car.
So yes I became that woman, the one who goes to work with a ridiculous hickey, trying desperately to pretend it wasn’t there. For the most part, people seemed willing to go along with my delusions. This was because they would avoid asking me altogether in favor of asking my friend what the hell was on my neck. I had tried to cover it up to no avail. My sweater did no good, neither did any makeup. My niece who was living with me at the time (don’t get too worried about me corrupting a minor – she’s only seven years younger than me) said that her friend recommended holding a really cold metal spoon against the offending mark to breakup the blood cells or something. None of it worked.
And better than having to go to work the day after said hickey, the following day I had to get on a plane traveling to a climate where sweaters would be ridiculous at best. I attempted to pull off the summer scarf look but there’s only so many days in a row that you can wear a scarf in 80 degree weather without drawing more attention to yourself than what you hope is your drastically faded hickey.
This of course was how Professor Hickey got his nickname. He would have stayed in the running longer had it not been for some non-internet date-like activity that convinced me that I could not be happy settling for a platonic relationship where my neck was permanently scarred. While this little dalliance was fun for a brief time, it showed me again that not all dukes of douchebaggery are found on the internet. But in a way I was grateful, as at least I remembered that there was something out there better than awkward platonicness/feelings of nausea.
It made it somewhat impossible for me to carry on with the Professor. We attempted another go, but it didn’t work. I did manage to get back my grandmother’s earring and then quickly spurn the Professor’s advances in an unfortunate inebriated text (if he could decipher the words, the gist of the message was that he was a wonderful guy but why would he think anyone older than a junior high student would dig a hickey).
I think of The Professor now and again and wonder if I made the right decision. In spite of the hickey and the awkwardness, he was a really great guy. I’m 99% certain that I did make the right decision. I’m not 100% certain that I’ll find a guy as nice or smart or fun as him but I’m 100% certain that he’s way too good of a guy to settle for someone that’s not sure she wants to be with him. I’m 100% certain that if I have to be embarrassed by having a hickey, at least I want it to be fun receiving said blemish. And I’m 100% certain that the only platonic relationship I’ll settle for is one where I get to eat butter-laden goodness prepared by Mama Deen herself for the most grateful daughter-in-law-to-be in the world.
*Name has been changed
