modern love - a short story
Jan. 14th, 2004 04:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blithespiritModern Love
I'm a well balanced girl. The kind who takes meeting new people completely in her stride. Confident. It's taken me a while to become like this - after all I'm 30 now. Even the prospect of a blind date didn't phase me. I didn't have pre-date jitters. I didn't give it a second thought until I was about to walk through the door to meet him.
But you see, there's a problem with not being a self-conscious person. On occasion, self-consciousness is called for, and then you're woefully underprepared.
Case in point: I'm meeting someone for a coffee. I haven't met him before. It's a blind date. We found each other on an internet dating site. We've exchanged a couple of emails. I've seen his photo, he's seen mine. We're going to have coffee. None of this phases me until I get to the cafe. I push open the door to walk in off the street.
Suddenly I feel like I'm screentesting for the first time. Where should I look? Where should I place my feet? Will he be looking out for me? Should I let him see me first?
My body seems to have gone on strike. I've recently been thawed out from a 100 year cryogenic sleep. My own body is a stranger and I'm learning how to walk again.
I propel myself forward, somehow, and look around for the guy in the photo.
There are a row of tables along the left hand side of the cafe, against the wall. Towards the back of the cafe, a guy in a suit half stands up. That must be him...
Oh god. My heart sinks.
Oh. God.
He doesn't look anything like I expected. He doesn't look anything like his picture.
He's in a suit. He's really attractive. I wasn't prepared for this.
We stumble through introductions. First names only. We share a polite laugh over the awkwardness of our engineered meeting.
I was expecting some shy, sweet guy in a rumpled t-shirt. I'm dressed to meet *that* guy. I have haystack hair. I didn't brush my hair today. My boots are scuffed, they haventt been polished in a year.
I'm cringing on the inside. I'm not the girl he's supposed to be meeting. There should be a cut now, and a second take. This time a well groomed girl in a Newtown-chic dress will walk in the door and sit down with the good looking guy in the suit.
See, self consciousness would have helped here. What kind of normal girl walks out her front door in the morning without brushing her hair? A normal girl would have taken extra care this morning, because she was excited about having a blind date and wanted to make a good impression. But I didn't even brush my hair.
On the surface though, or should I say below the surface, it's going ok. Thank god we can both talk. The guy I was expecting (rumpled t-shirt guy) was shy. A shy, stumbling guy with a cute sense of humour. But the guy across from me is not shy. He's funny and talkative and puts on silly accents and makes conversation with the waitress. I appreciate this. I'm usually the one who has to carry the conversation. This at least I don't need to worry about.
"So have you done this before?" he asks. I think we're supposed to be embarrassed that we're trying online dating. But I'm too busy being embarrassed about my dishevelled appearance (why didn't I brush my hair?!) to be embarrassed about this too. Who shows up to a first date looking like they've been dragged through a hedge backwards?
Anyway, we establish that neither of us has had an internet blind date before. We're both trying it because friends have done it. We're both novices. We're in the same boat. We can laugh about it.
I'm glad neither of us has done this before. I imagine guys trying to break the ice with girls on blind dates by making jokes about dreadful blind dates they've had with other girls. I imagine being the girl across the table calculating how long until one of them is relating her story to the next blind date.
I should tell him about my first impression of him. About my embarrassment over my haystack hair. It will probably make him laugh. Maybe it will difffuse some of this initial meeting nervousness. Maybe he'll even be charmed. But I can't tell him. Usually I enjoy making jokes at my own expense, but not tonight. Too nervous, no bravado to burn. Maybe I can tell him another time. If we see each other again.
After we've both had a coffee, he asks if I'd like to go across the road for a drink. I'm hanging out for a cigarette, he explains. He wants to keep talking, cool. I must not be making as bad an impression as I thought.
He starts rolling himself a cigarette as soon as we walk out of the cafe. I watch, because I have a thing about men's hands. His are good. Long, slender fingers, with one silver ring on the ring finger of his left hand. Entertwined silver bands, maybe Celtic but I can't tell. I want to grin to myself. Is it an odd thing to fancy guys who have nice hands and wear silver rings?
His hands have obviously rolled a million cigarettes before this one.
As we cross King Street and head for the Marly Bar, I size him up. He's tall, taller than me. And slender. Wears a suit well. His head is shaved, and it suits him. Thin face, cheekbones. So much better looking than his photos. But I'm far too shy to tell him that.
We settle down in a corner of the Marly bar. He drinks scotch, I have vodka. We take turns buying rounds. We skim over relationship resumes. I manage to work into the conversation the one poison pill I knew I'd have to fit into the date somehow. "Actually, I'm divorced."
He's surprised - a divorcee at 30. Can't blame him, it came as a bit of a shock to me too. At least I've told him now, that's the hard bit done with.
The conversation moves onto travel. We laugh about being Australians on the obligatory European 20-something tour of duty. I wax lyrical about the most beautiful place I went to - the Chateau de Bagnols in France. He talks about Prague. And running into Robert de Niro in some small town somewhere. About loaning a roll of film to the Raging Bull, who was really only interested in hitting on the waitress...
We try to work out our social family tree, but the six degrees of separation doesn't seem to connect us. We have a couple of more drinks.
I go to the toilet for a breather. I wonder how I'm doing. Where's my coach - isn't this half time? I look at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, and wonder what kind of impression I'm making. I like him, but I wish I wasn't so nervous. I wish I had a hairbrush. I wish I had the kind of shoes normal girls wear on dates.
When I walk back out to the lounge, I'm still concentrating on walking normally. I'm still rehearsing in my head how to speak normally, for god's sake. I mean, I knew the internet blind thing was going to be a bit of a social experiment, but I'm not supposed to be the subject, god damn it. But I feel distinctly like I'm slipping around on a glass slide under a microscope.
When I get back to the table, I'm barely back in my seat before I blurt out "When I was in the bathroom, I was wondering if I'm living up to my ad..."
"Actually, I thought you'd be more of a bitch," he says. He's smiling as he says it. Isn't he?
OK, so I'm not a bitch. I think that's good. He means I'm nicer than he expected, right? Or does he mean nice in a boring way? Maybe he wanted a bitch, was expecting someone with bite. I have bite. I'm funny. I'm just being so damn awkward. Well, I am and I'm not. When we're talking, I'm having fun. If I stop and think, I get awkward. Best not to think. Don't look down. You'll fluff your lines.
It's getting late and we're both doing the school night wilt. We drink up and start the polite, non-commital end of first date dance.
"Thanks," I say. "It's been fraught."
Oh christ. As soon as it's out of my mouth I want to double over and clap both hands over my mouth. I'm horrified at myself.
You can't recover from this one, girl.
"Whoa," he says, half laughing and throwing his hands up. I've just thrown cold water in his face. Christ, the poor guy.
I try to explain, but I feel like an 80 year old woman scrambling to pay for her shopping with five cent pieces. There's no way I can do it in time.
"I didn't mean anything about you," I limp. "I just meant to say I was really awkward."
Fraught? Who the fuck says fraught? I never even use that word. Why the fuck did I just say that? I mean, it's exactly how I feel, but what the hell was I thinking actually saying it?
Can we fastforward to the part where we're laughing about this later? Except I'm afraid that this will be one of those 'Blind Date Horror Stories' he amuses his friends with.
This is my future. In six months time I'll be walking down King Street and he'll be walking the other direction with his new girlfriend. We might say hello, but after they've walked a polite distance, the hairs on the back of my neck will prickle because he's telling her the story of our blind date.
Yeah, well, it's always so much funnier when it happened to someone else.
I'm a well balanced girl. The kind who takes meeting new people completely in her stride. Confident. It's taken me a while to become like this - after all I'm 30 now. Even the prospect of a blind date didn't phase me. I didn't have pre-date jitters. I didn't give it a second thought until I was about to walk through the door to meet him.
But you see, there's a problem with not being a self-conscious person. On occasion, self-consciousness is called for, and then you're woefully underprepared.
Case in point: I'm meeting someone for a coffee. I haven't met him before. It's a blind date. We found each other on an internet dating site. We've exchanged a couple of emails. I've seen his photo, he's seen mine. We're going to have coffee. None of this phases me until I get to the cafe. I push open the door to walk in off the street.
Suddenly I feel like I'm screentesting for the first time. Where should I look? Where should I place my feet? Will he be looking out for me? Should I let him see me first?
My body seems to have gone on strike. I've recently been thawed out from a 100 year cryogenic sleep. My own body is a stranger and I'm learning how to walk again.
I propel myself forward, somehow, and look around for the guy in the photo.
There are a row of tables along the left hand side of the cafe, against the wall. Towards the back of the cafe, a guy in a suit half stands up. That must be him...
Oh god. My heart sinks.
Oh. God.
He doesn't look anything like I expected. He doesn't look anything like his picture.
He's in a suit. He's really attractive. I wasn't prepared for this.
We stumble through introductions. First names only. We share a polite laugh over the awkwardness of our engineered meeting.
I was expecting some shy, sweet guy in a rumpled t-shirt. I'm dressed to meet *that* guy. I have haystack hair. I didn't brush my hair today. My boots are scuffed, they haventt been polished in a year.
I'm cringing on the inside. I'm not the girl he's supposed to be meeting. There should be a cut now, and a second take. This time a well groomed girl in a Newtown-chic dress will walk in the door and sit down with the good looking guy in the suit.
See, self consciousness would have helped here. What kind of normal girl walks out her front door in the morning without brushing her hair? A normal girl would have taken extra care this morning, because she was excited about having a blind date and wanted to make a good impression. But I didn't even brush my hair.
On the surface though, or should I say below the surface, it's going ok. Thank god we can both talk. The guy I was expecting (rumpled t-shirt guy) was shy. A shy, stumbling guy with a cute sense of humour. But the guy across from me is not shy. He's funny and talkative and puts on silly accents and makes conversation with the waitress. I appreciate this. I'm usually the one who has to carry the conversation. This at least I don't need to worry about.
"So have you done this before?" he asks. I think we're supposed to be embarrassed that we're trying online dating. But I'm too busy being embarrassed about my dishevelled appearance (why didn't I brush my hair?!) to be embarrassed about this too. Who shows up to a first date looking like they've been dragged through a hedge backwards?
Anyway, we establish that neither of us has had an internet blind date before. We're both trying it because friends have done it. We're both novices. We're in the same boat. We can laugh about it.
I'm glad neither of us has done this before. I imagine guys trying to break the ice with girls on blind dates by making jokes about dreadful blind dates they've had with other girls. I imagine being the girl across the table calculating how long until one of them is relating her story to the next blind date.
I should tell him about my first impression of him. About my embarrassment over my haystack hair. It will probably make him laugh. Maybe it will difffuse some of this initial meeting nervousness. Maybe he'll even be charmed. But I can't tell him. Usually I enjoy making jokes at my own expense, but not tonight. Too nervous, no bravado to burn. Maybe I can tell him another time. If we see each other again.
After we've both had a coffee, he asks if I'd like to go across the road for a drink. I'm hanging out for a cigarette, he explains. He wants to keep talking, cool. I must not be making as bad an impression as I thought.
He starts rolling himself a cigarette as soon as we walk out of the cafe. I watch, because I have a thing about men's hands. His are good. Long, slender fingers, with one silver ring on the ring finger of his left hand. Entertwined silver bands, maybe Celtic but I can't tell. I want to grin to myself. Is it an odd thing to fancy guys who have nice hands and wear silver rings?
His hands have obviously rolled a million cigarettes before this one.
As we cross King Street and head for the Marly Bar, I size him up. He's tall, taller than me. And slender. Wears a suit well. His head is shaved, and it suits him. Thin face, cheekbones. So much better looking than his photos. But I'm far too shy to tell him that.
We settle down in a corner of the Marly bar. He drinks scotch, I have vodka. We take turns buying rounds. We skim over relationship resumes. I manage to work into the conversation the one poison pill I knew I'd have to fit into the date somehow. "Actually, I'm divorced."
He's surprised - a divorcee at 30. Can't blame him, it came as a bit of a shock to me too. At least I've told him now, that's the hard bit done with.
The conversation moves onto travel. We laugh about being Australians on the obligatory European 20-something tour of duty. I wax lyrical about the most beautiful place I went to - the Chateau de Bagnols in France. He talks about Prague. And running into Robert de Niro in some small town somewhere. About loaning a roll of film to the Raging Bull, who was really only interested in hitting on the waitress...
We try to work out our social family tree, but the six degrees of separation doesn't seem to connect us. We have a couple of more drinks.
I go to the toilet for a breather. I wonder how I'm doing. Where's my coach - isn't this half time? I look at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, and wonder what kind of impression I'm making. I like him, but I wish I wasn't so nervous. I wish I had a hairbrush. I wish I had the kind of shoes normal girls wear on dates.
When I walk back out to the lounge, I'm still concentrating on walking normally. I'm still rehearsing in my head how to speak normally, for god's sake. I mean, I knew the internet blind thing was going to be a bit of a social experiment, but I'm not supposed to be the subject, god damn it. But I feel distinctly like I'm slipping around on a glass slide under a microscope.
When I get back to the table, I'm barely back in my seat before I blurt out "When I was in the bathroom, I was wondering if I'm living up to my ad..."
"Actually, I thought you'd be more of a bitch," he says. He's smiling as he says it. Isn't he?
OK, so I'm not a bitch. I think that's good. He means I'm nicer than he expected, right? Or does he mean nice in a boring way? Maybe he wanted a bitch, was expecting someone with bite. I have bite. I'm funny. I'm just being so damn awkward. Well, I am and I'm not. When we're talking, I'm having fun. If I stop and think, I get awkward. Best not to think. Don't look down. You'll fluff your lines.
It's getting late and we're both doing the school night wilt. We drink up and start the polite, non-commital end of first date dance.
"Thanks," I say. "It's been fraught."
Oh christ. As soon as it's out of my mouth I want to double over and clap both hands over my mouth. I'm horrified at myself.
You can't recover from this one, girl.
"Whoa," he says, half laughing and throwing his hands up. I've just thrown cold water in his face. Christ, the poor guy.
I try to explain, but I feel like an 80 year old woman scrambling to pay for her shopping with five cent pieces. There's no way I can do it in time.
"I didn't mean anything about you," I limp. "I just meant to say I was really awkward."
Fraught? Who the fuck says fraught? I never even use that word. Why the fuck did I just say that? I mean, it's exactly how I feel, but what the hell was I thinking actually saying it?
Can we fastforward to the part where we're laughing about this later? Except I'm afraid that this will be one of those 'Blind Date Horror Stories' he amuses his friends with.
This is my future. In six months time I'll be walking down King Street and he'll be walking the other direction with his new girlfriend. We might say hello, but after they've walked a polite distance, the hairs on the back of my neck will prickle because he's telling her the story of our blind date.
Yeah, well, it's always so much funnier when it happened to someone else.