71 and 72 shook it up and wore plaid. Seattle men- always keeping me on my toes with fashion! I had high hopes for both, as it seemed that we had a lot in common. 71 was a mountain biker and hiker, relocated from Vermont to live near giant mountains and work in sustainable energy. 72 was a public policy grad student, spent two years in Ethiopia on a Peace Corps stint, and was a vegetarian. How could these dates end in anything but fireworks and naming the babies we'd have together?
I don't know, but they did; all parties involved were quite bored. I left the 72nd thinking of my last boyfriend- Number Zero- the man before the count started. He never went to college and his international experience was limited to his military service in Iraq. After we broke up I stalked him on OkCupid for a bit and noted that we were a low 56% match percentage. Yet we'd met in real, non-internet life and fell madly in love with each other. Point being? Everything can align on paper, but you never know when and how the magic will strike.
After the failure of my 72nd first date since that boyfriend, I didn't feel like I could go home alone. I drove aimlessly from Greenlake through Wallingford, crossed the University Bridge and decided to pull over in Eastlake for no good reason other than there was a parking spot in front of Serafina. Wine. I needed wine.
I sat at the bar next to a chatty gay man, and when I told him I just finished my 72nd first date he said "I'm so sorry hun! Let me buy you a drink and we'll talk it over." I poured my heart out to him over the next hour, and we bemoaned the loneliness and desperation. "See, this is already better than your date," he reassured me. "Life's looking up."
I completely agreed, and we switched conversation topics to our careers. He was a jack-of-all-trades and at one point was a cook in a sorority house. "My girlfriend didn't like that much, though, so I left."
Girlfriend?!?!? Whoa. Holy shit, had I fucked up. We continued the conversation and he became more explicit about his intentions. I realized that he wasn't a gay man being friendly. He was a straight man hitting on me.
Earlier in the evening, he'd given me his business card. "Well, you have my number. I'll let you decide what to do with it... Or you could give me yours."
A man confident enough to hit on me at a bar and get my contact information is what I have wanted in Seattle for the last three years! Unfortunately, I was completely uninterested. Even more unfortunately, I had been giving off an interested vibe for the previous sixty minutes. I tried to backtrack, but it was too late.
"I was hoping you'd hit on me," NOT gay man texted after I left.
"Were you hitting on me?", I responded.
"Would it work?", he countered.
I contemplated my commitment to honesty with dating, how I work hard to be clear about my intentions and expect the same from men. In my mind, I reviewed how I believe everyone deserves closure and a sincere answer back, no matter the context. And then I did the most passive, Seattle thing that I swore I'd never do.
I didn't respond.
I don't know, but they did; all parties involved were quite bored. I left the 72nd thinking of my last boyfriend- Number Zero- the man before the count started. He never went to college and his international experience was limited to his military service in Iraq. After we broke up I stalked him on OkCupid for a bit and noted that we were a low 56% match percentage. Yet we'd met in real, non-internet life and fell madly in love with each other. Point being? Everything can align on paper, but you never know when and how the magic will strike.
After the failure of my 72nd first date since that boyfriend, I didn't feel like I could go home alone. I drove aimlessly from Greenlake through Wallingford, crossed the University Bridge and decided to pull over in Eastlake for no good reason other than there was a parking spot in front of Serafina. Wine. I needed wine.
I sat at the bar next to a chatty gay man, and when I told him I just finished my 72nd first date he said "I'm so sorry hun! Let me buy you a drink and we'll talk it over." I poured my heart out to him over the next hour, and we bemoaned the loneliness and desperation. "See, this is already better than your date," he reassured me. "Life's looking up."
I completely agreed, and we switched conversation topics to our careers. He was a jack-of-all-trades and at one point was a cook in a sorority house. "My girlfriend didn't like that much, though, so I left."
Girlfriend?!?!? Whoa. Holy shit, had I fucked up. We continued the conversation and he became more explicit about his intentions. I realized that he wasn't a gay man being friendly. He was a straight man hitting on me.
Earlier in the evening, he'd given me his business card. "Well, you have my number. I'll let you decide what to do with it... Or you could give me yours."
A man confident enough to hit on me at a bar and get my contact information is what I have wanted in Seattle for the last three years! Unfortunately, I was completely uninterested. Even more unfortunately, I had been giving off an interested vibe for the previous sixty minutes. I tried to backtrack, but it was too late.
"I was hoping you'd hit on me," NOT gay man texted after I left.
"Were you hitting on me?", I responded.
"Would it work?", he countered.
I contemplated my commitment to honesty with dating, how I work hard to be clear about my intentions and expect the same from men. In my mind, I reviewed how I believe everyone deserves closure and a sincere answer back, no matter the context. And then I did the most passive, Seattle thing that I swore I'd never do.
I didn't respond.
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