That night at Lo-Fi was remarkable for a second reason: I met a man. In person. Holy fuck, it can happen.
He was standing by the wall of the club and my friend asked me what I thought. "I think he'd be cuter if he didn't have a beard," were my exact words. That was all she needed to hear. She declared herself my wingwoman and opened with the most asinine pickup line I have ever heard... "So, do you like 90s music?" At a 90s dance party. Whatever works, I suppose.
He immediately bought in. "I LOVE 90s music!" No shit. We all paid $10 to be inside a club blasting Ace of Base, so that was a given. In an effort to change to a less awkward topic, I asked him what he did for a living.
"I'm a photographer."
The universe froze in time. I didn't care about the beard anymore, I wanted to run away with him and lie under the stars and talk about life and love and our greatest fears. Instinctively, I knew, that if we went on an actual date, I would have fun. Photography lends itself to a world view that is similar to the perspective of someone who blogs about dating. There is a predisposition to analyze moments, to participate in life's drama while remaining oddly detached. It's the same reason that I love working in healthcare. I mentally noted, then tried to push out of my mind, that my favorite Brooklyn one-night-stand was a photographer too. I did not find it entirely coincidental.
When the topic of travel came up, he told me that his first trip outside the country was to Nigeria. For the first time in wayyyyyy too long, I was intrigued. The general picture of a man I would be interested in fit perfectly, and I wanted to get to know him better. He was fun (90s night!), creative, adventurous... All he needed to fit my type was a criminal record.
At the end of the night, as my friends and I were heading out, he asked me if I remembered his name. "B___," I said. "Right!" He perked up a little. "Well, R____, would you want to get a drink some time?"
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES
is what I thought as I did a happy dance inside my head.
I tried to play it cool, as though this happened all the time. "Yeah, that would be fun." We exchanged numbers.
The waiting game is on. Two days have passed without hearing from him, and we're heading into Christmas which makes a followup text less likely. But if he's good at dating, which I hope he is, he knows to make a woman sweat it out.
He was standing by the wall of the club and my friend asked me what I thought. "I think he'd be cuter if he didn't have a beard," were my exact words. That was all she needed to hear. She declared herself my wingwoman and opened with the most asinine pickup line I have ever heard... "So, do you like 90s music?" At a 90s dance party. Whatever works, I suppose.
He immediately bought in. "I LOVE 90s music!" No shit. We all paid $10 to be inside a club blasting Ace of Base, so that was a given. In an effort to change to a less awkward topic, I asked him what he did for a living.
"I'm a photographer."
The universe froze in time. I didn't care about the beard anymore, I wanted to run away with him and lie under the stars and talk about life and love and our greatest fears. Instinctively, I knew, that if we went on an actual date, I would have fun. Photography lends itself to a world view that is similar to the perspective of someone who blogs about dating. There is a predisposition to analyze moments, to participate in life's drama while remaining oddly detached. It's the same reason that I love working in healthcare. I mentally noted, then tried to push out of my mind, that my favorite Brooklyn one-night-stand was a photographer too. I did not find it entirely coincidental.
When the topic of travel came up, he told me that his first trip outside the country was to Nigeria. For the first time in wayyyyyy too long, I was intrigued. The general picture of a man I would be interested in fit perfectly, and I wanted to get to know him better. He was fun (90s night!), creative, adventurous... All he needed to fit my type was a criminal record.
At the end of the night, as my friends and I were heading out, he asked me if I remembered his name. "B___," I said. "Right!" He perked up a little. "Well, R____, would you want to get a drink some time?"
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES
is what I thought as I did a happy dance inside my head.
I tried to play it cool, as though this happened all the time. "Yeah, that would be fun." We exchanged numbers.
The waiting game is on. Two days have passed without hearing from him, and we're heading into Christmas which makes a followup text less likely. But if he's good at dating, which I hope he is, he knows to make a woman sweat it out.
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