I have been going to bars as a single woman in Seattle for nearly two years now and can count on one hand the number of men who I have met. Actually, I don't even need fingers to count with, because that number is ZERO. Two years of putting makeup on and doing my hair and trying to look cute and available has led to zilch as far as finding romance through public alcohol consumption. Then in my first night of a vacation in New York, out with two friends drinking cocktails, three men near us folded their conversation into ours.
I won the position lottery as the most attractive was sitting next to me, and my friends went down as the best wingwomen in history for occupying the other two. Eight million people in New York, and we connected. He had a fascinating job that didn't involve a computer science degree and took him all over the world. He spoke Russian and French. He practiced yoga and followed a mostly anti-inflammatory diet. Above all, he asked me appropriate questions about my life and seemed to care about what I had to say. Anyone who knows me and has heard me bitch about dating for the last two years in Seattle would have recognized that he was a straight-up match for what I'm looking for. Then, after an hour of me falling in love with a stranger in a Brooklyn bar who seemed pretty perfect already, he told me that he was raised loosely Jewish and is now atheist. The perfect kind of Jew! I think I ovulated.
He was born in 1968; closer in age to my parents than to me. Other things that happened in 1968: Martin Luther King was assassinated. The Tet Offensive. The 911 emergency telephone service started. Richard Nixon won an election... He would have been out of my age range on OkCupid, but who cared? I felt chemistry.
We exchanged numbers, and I prayed to the dating gods that he experienced the magic too. Was I too young for him? Too Seattle crunchy? Too curly-haired Jewish woman sassy? Too short? (I am 5'1'', he at least 6'4''). When he responded to my text message the next evening, I knew I was in. We met up at the Bedford station after midnight, and he delivered on a great date.
Bar in Williamsburg. Wine. Intelligent, easy conversation. Chemistry. Codeine pills (I like my men fun!). He did not wear a flannel shirt nor sport a bushy beard. The DJ played MGMT and when he saw my head nodding to the beat, his face lit up. "Want to get our groove on?" He pulled me up to dance.
I was having an awesome time, and I took a leap of faith that the following question would not offend him: "What were the 80s like?" He became a legal adult while I was watching Rainbow Brite, before I knew the alphabet. I asked if he was too coked out to remember the 80s, and he laughed. Once again, I like my men fun.
We left the bar to walk to his place, and he looked me in the eyes, said my name, and took my hand in his on the sidewalk. The decision to hold hands- to transfer the emotional connection into a physical one- had more meaning to me than I'd like to admit. It was the first time a man had held my hand in over a year, and as far as I was concerned, was practically tantamount to a marriage proposal. There have been dozens of horrible dates, a modest amount of casual sex, premature requests to fuck my ass, but no hand-holding. I knew in my heart that I was unlikely to see this man again, and I Lived. That. Moment.
Like any 44 year old man who is experienced in dating, he knew how to balance the hand-holding in the street with hair-pulling in the sheets, and I was totally content. As we laid in his bed afterwards, I wanted so badly to ask him how often he was finding what he was looking for with dating.
He volunteered the information without me asking. "R______, I knew within the first ten minutes of meeting you that we'd end up having sex. My last relationship ended six months ago, and I haven't been with anyone since. It's just so hard to find that connection with someone, and then it was so easy with you..." He trailed off.
I sighed as two years of dating flashed before my eyes, and my heart broke a little. "I know."
He said I could spend the night, which I declined. My time with him had been so perfect; I couldn't bear the thought of waking up sober with morning breath and frazzled hair and needing to awkwardly start our days. He offered to give me $20 for my cab ride, a well-intended move that made me shudder. "There will be no money exchanged in this transaction," I joked, "the drink was enough." I thanked him for the offer and walked back, through Brooklyn, at 4 am.
The next day he sent me a text. "Thank you for last night. It was great and fun. I don't know what you came to New York looking for, but I hope I was able to give it to you." He had no clue.
It wouldn't have worked out, I know already. There was a significant age difference, for one, that allows for a fun night but creates a power dynamic that would make me uneasy in a relationship. Moreover, there was a cultural divide. He was East Coast classy and composed, while I am a born-and-raised free spirit of the Pacific Northwest. I was surprised he was attracted to me to begin with and thought he would do well with an art curator or a fashion designer, not a community health medical provider who drains black tar heroin abscesses and tries to reassure her delusional patients that bugs are, in fact, not crawling out of their skin. He needed a slim, attractive, cultured woman who could appreciate the best of what New York has to offer; I dream of solo-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and there is nothing that makes me happier than sitting atop a mountain peak, grit and sweat all over my face and hair.
Yet years from now, when I look back at this late 20s/early 30s time period that may well extend into late 30s/early 40s or may never even end, that night is how I want to remember dating. When it is good, I make connections with people from different backgrounds who teach me lessons and add their stories to my own narrative. If I'm lucky, I experience the inertia of a possible relationship starting to build and the hope that two people feel as they begin to discover each other. I fail so often, yes, but these brief success stories propel me to try again because they remind me that connections can still be made.
I just need to find them in Seattle.
I won the position lottery as the most attractive was sitting next to me, and my friends went down as the best wingwomen in history for occupying the other two. Eight million people in New York, and we connected. He had a fascinating job that didn't involve a computer science degree and took him all over the world. He spoke Russian and French. He practiced yoga and followed a mostly anti-inflammatory diet. Above all, he asked me appropriate questions about my life and seemed to care about what I had to say. Anyone who knows me and has heard me bitch about dating for the last two years in Seattle would have recognized that he was a straight-up match for what I'm looking for. Then, after an hour of me falling in love with a stranger in a Brooklyn bar who seemed pretty perfect already, he told me that he was raised loosely Jewish and is now atheist. The perfect kind of Jew! I think I ovulated.
He was born in 1968; closer in age to my parents than to me. Other things that happened in 1968: Martin Luther King was assassinated. The Tet Offensive. The 911 emergency telephone service started. Richard Nixon won an election... He would have been out of my age range on OkCupid, but who cared? I felt chemistry.
We exchanged numbers, and I prayed to the dating gods that he experienced the magic too. Was I too young for him? Too Seattle crunchy? Too curly-haired Jewish woman sassy? Too short? (I am 5'1'', he at least 6'4''). When he responded to my text message the next evening, I knew I was in. We met up at the Bedford station after midnight, and he delivered on a great date.
Bar in Williamsburg. Wine. Intelligent, easy conversation. Chemistry. Codeine pills (I like my men fun!). He did not wear a flannel shirt nor sport a bushy beard. The DJ played MGMT and when he saw my head nodding to the beat, his face lit up. "Want to get our groove on?" He pulled me up to dance.
I was having an awesome time, and I took a leap of faith that the following question would not offend him: "What were the 80s like?" He became a legal adult while I was watching Rainbow Brite, before I knew the alphabet. I asked if he was too coked out to remember the 80s, and he laughed. Once again, I like my men fun.
We left the bar to walk to his place, and he looked me in the eyes, said my name, and took my hand in his on the sidewalk. The decision to hold hands- to transfer the emotional connection into a physical one- had more meaning to me than I'd like to admit. It was the first time a man had held my hand in over a year, and as far as I was concerned, was practically tantamount to a marriage proposal. There have been dozens of horrible dates, a modest amount of casual sex, premature requests to fuck my ass, but no hand-holding. I knew in my heart that I was unlikely to see this man again, and I Lived. That. Moment.
Like any 44 year old man who is experienced in dating, he knew how to balance the hand-holding in the street with hair-pulling in the sheets, and I was totally content. As we laid in his bed afterwards, I wanted so badly to ask him how often he was finding what he was looking for with dating.
He volunteered the information without me asking. "R______, I knew within the first ten minutes of meeting you that we'd end up having sex. My last relationship ended six months ago, and I haven't been with anyone since. It's just so hard to find that connection with someone, and then it was so easy with you..." He trailed off.
I sighed as two years of dating flashed before my eyes, and my heart broke a little. "I know."
He said I could spend the night, which I declined. My time with him had been so perfect; I couldn't bear the thought of waking up sober with morning breath and frazzled hair and needing to awkwardly start our days. He offered to give me $20 for my cab ride, a well-intended move that made me shudder. "There will be no money exchanged in this transaction," I joked, "the drink was enough." I thanked him for the offer and walked back, through Brooklyn, at 4 am.
The next day he sent me a text. "Thank you for last night. It was great and fun. I don't know what you came to New York looking for, but I hope I was able to give it to you." He had no clue.
It wouldn't have worked out, I know already. There was a significant age difference, for one, that allows for a fun night but creates a power dynamic that would make me uneasy in a relationship. Moreover, there was a cultural divide. He was East Coast classy and composed, while I am a born-and-raised free spirit of the Pacific Northwest. I was surprised he was attracted to me to begin with and thought he would do well with an art curator or a fashion designer, not a community health medical provider who drains black tar heroin abscesses and tries to reassure her delusional patients that bugs are, in fact, not crawling out of their skin. He needed a slim, attractive, cultured woman who could appreciate the best of what New York has to offer; I dream of solo-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and there is nothing that makes me happier than sitting atop a mountain peak, grit and sweat all over my face and hair.
Yet years from now, when I look back at this late 20s/early 30s time period that may well extend into late 30s/early 40s or may never even end, that night is how I want to remember dating. When it is good, I make connections with people from different backgrounds who teach me lessons and add their stories to my own narrative. If I'm lucky, I experience the inertia of a possible relationship starting to build and the hope that two people feel as they begin to discover each other. I fail so often, yes, but these brief success stories propel me to try again because they remind me that connections can still be made.
I just need to find them in Seattle.
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