Wine, Dine, and Ignore

In between the sweaty palms, verbal fumbles, awkward silences, too-loud meeting places, late arrivals, and food-in-teeth moments, occasionally there is that rare moment when everything just goes right.

It had been years since anything just went “right” as far as dating and I were concerned. I was growing skeptical. What if “right” had only existed in the delusional optimism of my early 20s? As a young girl, my world was consumed by fairy tales, My Little Ponies, Barbies, and spying on the TV when Mom was watching When Harry Met Sally for the 14th time. In the land of 1990s romantic comedies, and Barbie and Ken, that “right” moment was always seconds away, waiting to unfold perfectly.

I knew my own Blossom Russo-esque life was waiting for me. Disappointingly, in the "2000s" era adult world, finding the “right” moment was as allusive a concept as a “great deal” on mobile phone service. The '90s had come and gone, as was my confidence that Mr. Right was going to magically appear. 

Approximately four minutes into a first date with Calvin, everything was “right,” and a hunch told me it would stay that way. He was obviously a jeans and t-shirt fellow, without a crazy haircut, overly hipster-esque glasses, or a spattering of oddly shaped piercings. He was tall, and for some reason, I’ve always had a thing for tall fellows. Despite my somewhat nontraditional ways, I’m a sucker for height – we all have shallow moments. Maybe it’s because larger men make me feel somehow smaller, and I’m pretty accustomed to being a kinda large gal. At any rate, Calvin was about 6 feet tall, with the bonus of broad shoulders. I’m also a sucker for good shoulders.

We were compatible on a million levels. Neither of us wanted to leave Detroit. We both had a squirrely rescue dog and a roommate. We lived approximately 2.5 miles apart, in similar neighborhoods where older homes, nosey neighbors, spacious sagging porches, and a sense of community were still the norm. There were no children or ex-spouses, and we were both in the fortunate, but time consuming, situation of being overly employed. He didn’t seem to think my love of pit bulls was horrifying, and I liked the fact that he knew who some of my favorite Detroit musicians were. Since I have the musical taste of a senior citizen, I found that tidbit exceptionally charming. Even odder bit of trivia, our mothers had the same first name. 

For 45 minutes we sat and had coffee. Having left the house for a 6 p.m. coffee date, I had naturally been prepping since 4 p.m. By the time I flew down the driveway, it was already 5:52 p.m., and I was getting hungry. I secretly hoped that this would be the best date ever, and we could move on to dinner, or I could cut my losses after 20 minutes, leave, and hit up the Taco Bell drive through. Given my history, I was already planning my value menu purchases.

Everything was perfect. We left coffee and had dinner. After dinner there was the warmest hug ever, and he assured me he’d call. I went home walking on sunshine and feeling like the most fantastic girl on the planet.

When it comes to dating, I’m fine with casual dating. It’s fun. However, it seems like a lot of hair styling, nail polishing, and obsessive ironing without the assurance of “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I’m looking to move on from being a perpetual casual-dater. I’m looking for a little stability.  Perhaps I want a crazy person who might desire a family, a few floppy dogs, and a house with enough walls to theoretically hold an “art” collection. I also want a kitchen big enough to hold a trove of kitsch coffee mugs, premium vodka, and an inordinate amount of spatulas. Calvin was the first person for far-too-long that I could imagine having a stable, adult relationship with. After all, he’d rather strongly implied that he was interested in the same sort of life that I was.

After the best first date ever, I was feeling extremely lucky. I nearly skipped up the stairs when I arrived home. I obsessively checked my missed calls log for a week. I was optimistic. I was excited. I was a gal with a little crush.

Ya know when I next heard from Calvin? Two weeks later, and then four weeks after that. “Dating” someone for six weeks, and only seeing him three times, is not the sort of adult relationship I am looking for. I was slightly baffled. After playing it cool, I resorted to throwing myself at him, which was embarrassing, but made me feel like I’d at least made the effort. I won’t go into these ridiculous details, but be assured that no illegal/creepy stalking occurred. I assumed that embarrassing myself would be enough for Calvin. It wasn’t. I looked stupid, and – rather obviously – remain single.

What is this tale’s moral? If there has to be one, it would be “don’t design a pit bull-proof landscaping plan for your vodka-and-art stuffed house before a man buys you flowers.”