by David M. Howell ©1996
(From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
Did you have a date last night? How’d it go? Was the bond strong enough that you felt an absence as you sat, comfortably dressed in your underwear browsing the Sunday paper with only a cup of coffee for companionship? Obviously I’m not talking about couples or the happily married exceptions to the current downward trends in marital bliss. I’m talking to those in the dating trenches.
How do you know when you’ve met the “right person?” What are the really important questions that establish a relationship?
Will she think I’m a nice guy? Will he make me laugh? Will she be disappointed I don’t make more money? Will my cat like him? Will she find my bald spot cute? Will we go out again?
These aren’t easily answered questions. In fact, I’m still not sure these are even the right questions. Following the tragic end of what I thought was the perfect marriage four years ago, I found myself not wanting to be the statistic I’d already become. Like the anxiety of surviving a devastating plane crash—I was ecstatic about being alive, but not sure I should be—divorce is a place that most singles can’t imagine or even know exists. It means diving back into the frigid waters you’ve struggled so hard to save yourself from.
Consequently, meeting someone has become an obsession weighing heaviest on my friends. Each has offered advice and counseling to aid my plight. It’s time to share this encouragement, this guidance, this blind-leading-the-blind therapy in the hopes that it’s not too late for you to save yourself from the travesties I’ve encountered.
The first bit of support came from friends who wanted to “fix me up” with another friend. Now I’ve known my friends for quite sometime. We have done just about everything together over the years. Yet, I’ve never met or even heard of these ‘other friends.’ It’s like they’ve kept an entire extra set of dishes hidden away. These ‘other friends’ are like cooking gadgets in a bachelor’s kitchen.
You find out how little your friends really know about you when you see who they want to fix you up with. With the only things in common being planet of origin and bipedal locomotion, my optimistic friends view this as enough for a perfect match.
“You’re gonna love her,” I’ve been told. “She’s just like you.”
I expect more honesty for a car salesman.
Okay, that could mean anything. If she has opposable thumbs, lungs and well trimmed facial hair that’s enough to spark a life-long game of “I don’t know, which movie do you want to rent?”
Now, being set up is uncomfortable for just about everyone involved. My friends feel responsible for helping me meet someone. They also feel responsible to their girlfriends for finding a really nice guy.
Well, I think I’m a nice guy. I brush at least twice a day. I’m courteous and polite most of the time. I also consider it evil to strike a woman even as part of CPR. And here’s where it gets interesting in all forms of introductions, friends will describe a woman to me by her outwardly appearances. She’s short, athletic and curvy (my fantasy and not based on any actual event). They will describe me, however, using internal qualities. “He’s a successful writer, funny and well, nice. He’s a nice guy.”
So when I finally meet the ‘other friend’ I discover she could be Linda Tripps’ double with a body assembled by the Mr. Potato Head factory. Now I’m no longer a nice guy. I should over look the toothless, NHL goalie smile that could be flossed with a garden hose and her Airstream figure. After all, it’s what’s inside the per-son that really matters. Come on let’s stop kidding ourselves, we’re all superficial. We pass judgment daily on people we don’t even know. But go on a date and suddenly you should look the other way. At least I had to if I wanted to keep any food down. I feel like I’ve just been duped with underbody rust-proofing.
This is by no means a one-way street. Turns out she didn’t think my jokes were funny. My aggressive conversation style was rude and since I was casually dressed, I must not be that successful. Oh, and she finds bald men repulsive. Bottom line, everybody’s disappointed.
Luckily, I have other friends who are quick to help. Like lawyers chasing an ambulance, they’re right there with sound council. Seems I’m going about this all-wrong. In this day and age the only way to find someone is to answer a personal ad.
A brilliant move. If I really want to meet the self-confident woman of my dreams all I have to do is seek out someone’s who’s advertising it. Why couldn’t I see the failure in this before I jumped?
Now before you slip this under your yet-to-be house broken Labrador, I too have heard all the success stories about people meeting their soul mate through personal ads. After all, I found a perfectly good window air conditioner last summer in the want ads, why should finding a mate be such a stretch.
Perusing the Personals, this jumped out:
SWF charming and delightful bookworm seeks same. I have a love for books, movies and romantic walks along the lake. If you’re successful, nice and share a passion for the arts lets get together.
A match made in heaven. It was like reading my horoscope and discovering it’s my turn to win the PowerBall. Call I should. Call I must. Call I did.
I got Ellen’s voicemail.
“Hi, my name is Ellen,” she said matter-of-factly. I like a woman that knows herself. She’s obviously self-confident. “I want to thank you for calling. As I said in my ad, I am a bookworm. I hope you are too. In fact, tell me what your five favorite books are. I also like movies, especially foreign films. They’re so deep.”
Yeah, Young Einstein was packed with philosophic retrospective.
“Tell me what your favorite films are,” she continued. “Tell me about yourself. Don’t leave anything out; I’m a stickler for details. Looking forward to hearing from you…”
It’s dating 101 and I had my first assignment.
I rattled off five books I’d recently read. Movies were going to be a little tougher. I’m very mainstream, action kind of guy. For me, ‘foreign film’ means some World War II flick with John Wayne kicking butt in Europe or the Pacific. I knew this wouldn’t do so I quickly regrouped my thoughts and went for the standards. Godfather, Citizen Kane and Wizard of Oz. As for describing myself, well I was as honest as I could be. No visible scars or birth defects (though I failed to mention thinning hair). I look pretty average—with the emphasis on average not pretty.
Ellen called me back several days later and we arranged a meeting. Sunday brunch. It seemed safe. If the introduction went well, we would have the afternoon. If not, there was a Bulls game to fall back on.
It’s amazing how much sports are like a relationship. (Talking to the guys here.) Each team sizes up the other. There’s conflict, tension and suspense. A lot of hugging, butt patting and genital grabbing. Everybody’s trying to score and at the same time presenting a strong defense. Things usually get pretty physical and then it’s over and you wonder where the time went. You even talk about it the next day at work.
All right, without reading ahead you’ve probably already figured out that Ellen was about three evolutionary steps away from her primate kin. She didn’t drag her knuckles, but her head was actually lower than her shoulders. Yes, I’m aware this is cruel, but it’s part of life. Most of us rubberneck at traffic accidents to witness carnage. I answer personal ads.
Over coffee and a fruit plate that included lettuce and cottage cheese, two new additions to the fruit family, I struggled to make conversation. Where are you from? What do you do? Does drooling run in your family? Nothing seemed to penetrate her wall. She just didn’t talk. The more she sat mute the more animated I became.
Finally, half way into ‘brunch’ she looked up at me.
“Have you ever been in an asylum?” Ellen asked.
Taken aback, I didn’t quite know how to respond. I didn’t think I as that out of control.
“No,” was all I could think to say.
I watched as this answer, two letters, one small word worked its way into the core of her being.
“Hmmmm,” she finally responded. “Cause you look familiar.”
That was it. I looked at my watch, asked for the check and headed for the door and my next encounter.
A friend of mine, tired of dragging me around like Peter Brady on Greg’s big date, suggested I contact a dating service. This is where you pay money, good money to find someone stupid enough to pay just as much money to find you. The problem is dating services have an abundance of women looking for a husband because they can’t trust their girl friends to be honest with them.
“Oh, Cindy, I feel fat…”
“Marcy, you’re not fat. Look at you, I’d swear you’re a size four. I have sweater that would look like a tent on you.”
“I’m a size 16!”
“Have another Dove Bar, it’s Sunday, it doesn’t count.”
So after an exhausting interview, the service agrees to handle my case, which is handled something like this: we have too many women looking for husbands…you’re a man…we have a match.
What have I got to lose but time, money and dignity? I signed on for six introductions.
With all the anticipation of waiting for that first teenage kiss, I plunged into my first introduction. Now there’s a certain excitement surrounding dating services. You describe your perfect mate and they find her. Well, the adrenaline rush of meeting the Venus I envisioned elevated the anticipation to a degree just this side of euphoria. The coach put me in the game, and I was ready to play.
Now we didn’t actually speak before the “date.” The service made all the arrangements. This, I was told, to protect the woman. Or is it because a pre-date phone call would have revealed that we share the same desire to meet someone, anyone, but each other.
That’s not to say that the women I met through the service weren’t desirable. They were all very nice. But with each date the service moved further and further away from the “perfect mate” I’d described. I specifically requested someone 5’4” or under. My first date, a 5’9” accountant was a sweet woman who lived in the suburbs (I requested Chicago only). Quiet, introverted just this side of a coma. Not really my type at all.
The second date was 5’3” in girth. This was probably the worst thing the service could have done. Okay, before you cast me into dating purgatory, remember, the service ASKED me to be specific about my ideal mate. I prefer the fit, athletic woman. I know there are a lot of feminist taking my name in vain at the moment. Well, lighten up. I guarantee given the choice between David Duchovny and Steve Buscemi, you’d pick Duchovny. Same shoe, different closet.
Anyway, my third introduction was furthest from the request. Short, stout and extremely religious. I feared for my afterlife. If I hadn’t agreed to be saved she would have cast me as the antichrist and crucified me on the spot. As it was she anointed me with ice water and would have put a cross of ashes on my forehead if she hadn’t burned both thumbs on the table candle.
I forfeited my remaining dates. The service may have gotten it right eventually, but it was like waiting for the firing squad to re-load. Time to run.
So there I was alone having tested the dating waters via friends, newspaper matches and a service that claimed to know what I wanted better than I did. What did I have to show for it? Angry friends, disappointment, a huge VISA bill and the realization that there must be something wrong with me.
I felt dejected as I rode the bus north through Chicago’s Lincoln Park.
“Sorry,” a woman said as she shifted her Pottery Barn bag.
Our eyes met. She was young, attractive with stunning brown eyes. She was exactly the kind of person I wish to see myself with but never seem to meet…and there she was, sitting right next to me.
“No problem,” I said noticing the store bag. “Pottery Barn, great candles.”
“I love their candles.”
She was easy to talk to. Nothing was forced, we were both relaxed. Or as relaxed as you can be on a crowded bus.
Like the bus, our conversation stopped and started as people and topics got on and off.
“Ya know, I kinda don’t want this to end…would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I asked. You don’t realize how hard it is to ask a woman such a simple question. The rejection, especially on a crowded bus can be devastating.
“Sounds great.” She introduced herself, a nurse who works two blocks north of my office and lives two blocks north of my apartment.
As the bus bumped the curb of its next stop I realized the secret to meeting someone. Don’t go looking. Finding the right person was a lot like waiting for the bus, just be patient, one will come along.
