Tuesday, April 04, 2006

I had a date last weekend. No, that does not count among my new feats for the year; I have a tension-filled social outing with an unknown male every other month or so. But it's been a long time since I said "yes" to a second outing, and this time was no different.

We met via a free Internet dating Web site that a crosscountry friend suggested I check out. I posted a photo-free profile, changed my mind and deleted it. Meanwhile, Dan showed up as a match for me, and on a whim, I e-mailed him a compliment on his smile. From there, we struck up a conversation.

He was 32. Close to my lowest-possible-acceptable-date age limit, but not out of the ball park. I think it's just a series of coincidences, but I can't recall the last time I dated an older man. Oh wait, yes I can. That's my ex-husband. Then again, I can also scarcely recall the last time I dated anyone long enough to get a look at their toothbrush.

You might say I'm picky. My friends do. You might say I'm ambivalent about relationships, perhaps even scared. My therapist does. You might say I'm all these things. Plus, busy. I do. Too busy, in fact, to think about it. Which the therapist suggests is entirely intentional. Unfortunately, I'm too busy to visit him anymore.

But I took time out on this sunny Sunday to meet Dan at a local hiking park because he sounded fun. He sounded cute. He sounded interested.

We strolled for about an hour and then stopped by a neighborhood restaurant for bad margaritas and artichoke dip. The conversation flowed pleasantly. He reached out occasionally to touch my arm. He leaned close. He sent all the signals a girl could hope to receive.

But my reception was fuzzy.

He was indeed cute, with a ready smile and an easily coaxed laugh. He wore his baseball cap backward, which I found boyish and endearing. In an effort to regrow his goatee, he had recently stopped shaving. I like stubble. I'm AOK with goatees. Physically, he was more than fine.

But he didn't make me laugh, my only absolute must-have. He had no real goals, career or otherwise, expressing content in his eight-year post as an insurance company telemarketer. And he wanted something serious, or so it appeared. Within 10 minutes of meeting, he asked if I wanted to remarry. My answer was short, if not sweet. "Someday."

He also asked what my favorite color was.

"Red," I said.

"Me, too!" he said. "What's your second favorite?"

"Blue."

"Me, too!" he said in an incredulous tone.

My guess is that perhaps 40 percent of the population would respond the same, and most of the rest would instead say blue first, then red. In either case, I did not think our shared passion for the color red would hold us together when times were tough. But by this time, I was already looking for reasons to justify my disinterest.

Worst of all, he owned a Shitzu that was the apple of his eye. Guys with small dogs -- is it just me, or is there something weird about that? And even if it's not, I knew our relationship would be sullied when my dog ate his for lunch.

I hoped the dog thing was fixable. As we strolled through the park, I tried repeatedly to draw his attention to the medium and large-sized dogs. But he ignored them, and complimented almost every small canine that passed by us, once in baby talk.

Compassion for animals aside, I was disturbed.

My friend April agreed. "Eew, a Shitzu," she said. "And he's really into it? Oh Jane, I'm sorry." My friend Tom, also single and so far dogless, was shocked. "But I thought small dogs were chick magnets!" "No, Tom," I said. "Your daughter's guinea pig is more of a chick magnet than a Shitzu." I could hear pencil scratching paper; Tom was taking notes.

My afternoon with Dan ended with a nice, firm hug. It also ended with me telling the #1 date lie, by nodding happily and agreeing that I, too, would like us to see one another again.

A few days later, I sent an e-mail saying I just wasn't ready for a relationship and that I wished him well.

He e-mailed to ask if we could be friends, and to tell me to call him anytime. I committed dating lie #2 and e-mailed "sure," and "of course." I deleted the dating Web site from my bookmarks.

Since then, I've been busy -- really, really busy -- trying to find Tom a leash sized for guinea pig.

No comments: