Thursday, December 13, 2007
Due to overwork and various moodswings, I never got around to writing about my first date with Mark. He was the fourth in the series of dates that took place over five days more than two a half years ago.
[For the earlier parts of this series, click here:
(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five)]
When I first saw Mark's profile on the dating site, I thought whoa. He sounded verrry different from every other guy I've dated. His profile was chock filled with stuff. He was an avid music collector. He was an unabashed media whore. He'd traveled just about everywhere. He sounded effusive and confident and outgoing. He worked in tv.
As a cavewoman who didn't have cable and knew almost nothing in terms of pop culture, I found the concept frighteningly odd. It was like the hip, popular guy asking the geeky girl in the corner on a date.
But I was going along with the whole thing, open to anyone, as my friend Lucy had instructed. After meeting the tango fiend and the (cheap) teacher guy, I was not afraid. It would only be one drink, after all.
There were a couple emails back and forth. He wrote one that was very long, describing himself, his childhood in Lawn Guyland, his travels, his thoughts on things. Every word was spelled correctly, all the grammar was correct, and it was funny. I was impressed.
So I wrote back and we planned on a drink after I returned from my week in California. But before I returned, there was an accident. While playing kickball, Mark slid into home plate, leaning into one side. There was a loud snap as all his bodyweight landed on his right wrist, breaking it. Yowch.
Cut to date night, a Monday. We meet at Union Square. There he was, leaning up against one of the railings, his right arm in a cast. He wore a blue dress shirt the color of blueprint paper and jeans. He gave me a little smile and a kiss on the cheek, and then we walked to a nearby bar.
'What'll you have?' the bartender asked.
'Oh, a gin and tonic,' said the cavewoman.
'Make that a top shelf gin,' Mark said. 'Tanqueray, or Bombay Sapphire, one of those.'
The bartender looked at me. 'A Tang and tonic,' I must have said. I was too consumed with being impressed to know whether I was speaking English.
The evening skipped along quickly. There was light-hearted, animated talk, but I don't remember a thing we said. We hopped to a second bar nearby. And then the worst thing that could have happened happened. Mark asked me out for a second date.
'So I'd like to see you again. What are you doing this weekend?' he asked.
Lucy had instructed that one should always be busy when asked for the second date. But what if you're tipsy in mid-drink and caught off guard? What if you're a horrible liar when face to face with someone? What then?!?!
The poor cavewoman could do nothing but say um, yes, this weekend sounded great.
And that was that.
Photo by myself, of one of the many coffee carts littered about the sidewalks, in Soho.