I was thinking I probably shouldn't write about my date last night. As I mentioned Monday, a suspicious search engine hit in my Sitemeter log had me paranoid that perhaps one of my prospective dates had found my blog, and if it was yesterday's guy, then it seems a bit rude to publish details about him on the Internet for anyone to read. I know it's my blog, but still. Last night was a particularly bad date, however. Mind-numbingly dull and even worse in retrospect, and as such, it hardly seems reasonable not to document it.
Besides that, I am pretty sure last night's guy has not found this site. Last night's guy has a computer-related job title, so presumably he should be savvy enough to Google a user name or an e-mail address in the interest of research. Despite whatever professional expertise he may claim, however, I have a hard time believing this particular man could navigate his way out of a walk-in closet without help, so I am just going to hope and guess he's none the wiser about this entry. Dude-who-shall-remain-nameless, if I'm wrong on this and you are actually reading this post, well then I'm sorry for taking the moral low ground. Feel free to tell all your friends about the classy girl who went out with you and then bad-mouthed you on the Internet. Or, you know, quietly internalize this, maybe take a few tips about social interaction, and buck up and move on with your life. Your way means admitting to your friends and loved ones that some girl you met on meMarmony ranked you in her top-five worst dates ever. My way lets you slink away anonymously with few identifying details. The choice is yours, OK?
I've probably set this up a tad too dramatically. It actually wasn't all that bad a date, I suppose. I mean, no one stole my purse, after all, and no one fell asleep (though it did occur to me more than once that a nap might be more fun). Still, when you're sitting in a coffee shop thinking, "I'm missing Gilmore Girls for this?" you know it's not a good sign. Keep in mind I'm talking about a seventh-season Gilmore Girls episode. Even the most devout fans (i.e., me) will admit the show's gone downhill. And yet? In front of my TV watching Lorelei and Rory (and even the maddeningly smarmy Logan) was an entirely more appealing place to be. Hell, being outside shoveling newly fallen snow on a -10 degree night was a more appealing place to be, and considering how much I truly hate being cold, that's really no small feat, I must say.
Bachelor #3 (we'll call him that because he's third of four this week, and because I really am all about limiting the personal details as much as possible) was a perfectly nice guy, I suppose. But when the "what's the most important quality you're looking for?" box on my profile clearly states I want someone smart and funny, I would like to think slack-jawed dull-wits need not apply.
I shouldn't have been expecting any mental giant, I suppose. The dude cannot spell, after all. Unfortunately, he's not even the type of bad speller who's just too lazy to run himself through spell check. Instead, he's the sort of bad speller who needs a yet-to-be-invented homophone-checker, as the little squiggly red lines won't suffice. You all know I am a word nerd and a grammar geek, so imagine the restraint it took not to correct his continued use of "collage" instead of "college." Or to refrain from pointing out that he probably meant "secret" instead of "secrete" in the last box of his profile. Still, I resolved to keep an open mind and to hope that someone who doesn't present well via e-mail can still be intelligent and interesting in person. I hope not to make that mistake again.
The whole date felt more like an interview than an actual normal, adult conversation. And I'm not even talking about an interview for some reputable, thought-provoking publication for clever, sharp-minded readers. No, this was more like an interview for Tiger Beat, given the mindless and trivial questions Bachelor #3 thought to ask. The conversation, for much of the date, went something like this:
Him: So, what's your favorite color?
Me: Um... purple?
Me: Uh, I guess.
Repeat about 47 times, with 47 equally meaningless questions, and you about have the gist of the night. Bear in mind that each "Really?" was delivered with the same dumb, vacant tone, a response that got so tiresome that by this question, I'd nearly had enough...
Him: So, you went to Jamaica? Did you like it?
Me: No, it totally sucked.
Me: No, you idiot, it was Jamaica. Of course I liked it, you fool. And can you maybe muster a response other than "Really?" for just one of these, you think??
OK, so I didn't actually say that. But I wanted to, of course.
I know that conversation is a two-way street, so I am not attempting to absolve myself of all blame. When the question-asker leaves no room for follow-up before launching into the next query, however, it's hard to steer things into any meaningful, deeper conversation on your own.
We actually did touch briefly on some more interesting topics, I guess. We managed to get to books and politics, after all, both fine topics on which I'd ordinarily have much to say. Since this wasn't an ordinary conversation, however, the exchange didn't go very far. Case in point:
Him: I think the next president is going to be either a woman or a black man.
Me: Hillary is unelectable. I'm not saying I don't like her or I wouldn't vote for her; I'm just saying, she's too polarizing. Too many people hate her. It makes her unelectable. Don't you think?
Him: Really? I didn't know people hated her... Why do they hate her?
Me: ... [trying to decide how to explain Republicans and conservative-minded women in a way that would make sense to a second-grader]
Him: OK, well then it's going to be a black man. You know... that one guy...?
Me: Barack Obama.
Him: Is that his name?
Me: Kill me now. Please.
OK, so I may be paraphrasing on that last part. Close enough, though, I say.
When he turned things to books, it wasn't any better, unfortunately. I hadn't read most of the titles he cited, but I'd at least heard of a few, anyway. That should have been a good start, until he mentioned some book about a bunch of guys trapped on an ice shelf somewhere...
Me: Was it fiction or nonfiction?
Him: Uh... nonfiction. Or. Wait. Nonfiction means "not true"? No, nonfiction is true, right?
Me: Um... yeah. Nonfiction means true story.
Him: Fiction then. It was fiction.
I guess I shouldn't judge, considering I'm the girl who just last week admitted she's incapable of remembering the temperature at which freezing occurs. We all have our Achilles' heel, after all. (I'm actually hoping that by admitting that weakness to the Internet, I have finally somehow locked it in memory and I will hereafter have no trouble retaining the fact that 32 is the number of degrees in question. Time will tell, though, I suppose.)
Usually after a pleasant though uneventful date, I'll send a niceties type e-mail thanking the guy for his time before clicking that fateful "Close Match" button and vanquishing him from my list. I'll tell him how nice it was to meet him and say that I really think he has fine qualities that are undoubtedly well suited for some woman who isn't me, but that chemistry is a strange, unpredictable thing, and I'm unfortunately just not feeling it with him. With this guy, though, I couldn't say any of that with any sort of honesty at all. I wish him well, sure, but I can't say, "it was a pleasure" with even a virtual poker face. So I boldly clicked that "Close" button with no explanation aside from a Dr. Warren-sanctioned checkbox on the page.
I am truly hoping tomorrow's date is far less painful, but given my track record this week, it's hard to muster too much optimism. At least tomorrow is a drinks date rather than coffee, however. I'm all for incorporating alcohol into all dates, actually. Alcohol gives even the most boring guys at least a fighting chance. Unfortunately, it also makes me prone to the idle nonsensical rambling of which I'm apparently so fond, meaning Tomorrow Dude might be writing about me on his own blog come Friday morning, but that's a risk I'll have to take, I suppose.