I liked #77 immediately, without even having met him, because his photos on OkCupid were a series of selfies taken in a Safeway bathroom. He had no pictures rock climbing, throwing fire, posing at the Taj Mahal, or playing a musical instrument. Rather the 6th Avenue Safeway in Tacoma, he elaborated, best described his personality. I was ready to roll.
We met up at a Tacoma café, and he was so cool! He'd recently earned a PhD in Sociology and was faculty at a local university, teaching a class on Gender Studies to undergrads. Intellectually, out of all the men I've been out with, I enjoyed talking with him the most. We geeked out together about hate speech, race, social inequality, and the failure of trickle-down economics. He asked me what I thought about the Affordable Care Act and genuinely seemed to care about my response. I felt like we could effortlessly hang out all night; we shared a ton in common.
But this was supposed to be a date, not a liberal powwow, and I couldn't tell if either of us was feeling it. I liked him sooooo much as a human being, yet as he described to me trends in worker job satisfaction since the 1970s, I tried to tune him out and focus on the question at hand:
"Could I picture us sleeping together?"
Try as I did, the answer was No.
I'd had such a good time, I made myself promise that if he asked me out again I would give it another shot and see if maybe, with more alcohol in our systems, we could create some chemistry together. My friends in loving relationships tell me I need to give men chances, that romance can take time to develop, and while this theory has never worked for me in the past, I continue to take their advice.
Then we parted on a street corner. "I hope you have a safe drive home," he said, and I could tell by his tone that the feeling was mutual.
He'd never been arrested. That was our problem.
We met up at a Tacoma café, and he was so cool! He'd recently earned a PhD in Sociology and was faculty at a local university, teaching a class on Gender Studies to undergrads. Intellectually, out of all the men I've been out with, I enjoyed talking with him the most. We geeked out together about hate speech, race, social inequality, and the failure of trickle-down economics. He asked me what I thought about the Affordable Care Act and genuinely seemed to care about my response. I felt like we could effortlessly hang out all night; we shared a ton in common.
But this was supposed to be a date, not a liberal powwow, and I couldn't tell if either of us was feeling it. I liked him sooooo much as a human being, yet as he described to me trends in worker job satisfaction since the 1970s, I tried to tune him out and focus on the question at hand:
"Could I picture us sleeping together?"
Try as I did, the answer was No.
I'd had such a good time, I made myself promise that if he asked me out again I would give it another shot and see if maybe, with more alcohol in our systems, we could create some chemistry together. My friends in loving relationships tell me I need to give men chances, that romance can take time to develop, and while this theory has never worked for me in the past, I continue to take their advice.
Then we parted on a street corner. "I hope you have a safe drive home," he said, and I could tell by his tone that the feeling was mutual.
He'd never been arrested. That was our problem.
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