I’ve kissed at least 62 people, ventured on half as many first dates, been in seven long-term relationships and five not-so-serious ones, taken 4.5 virginities and seriously thought I was going to marry two men. Now in my late 20s, my latest prospect plopped a used condom on my copy of the The Cellist of Sarajevo, a deeply sad and beautiful book, and it infuriated me. Maybe it’s my fault because I don’t have a trash can in my bedroom, but it also made me wonder, what exactly is the end game here?
Am I dating to find a husband? For companionship? To satisfy some dark, deep, cobwebbed mess in my unconscious? To learn about myself? To have fun? To fall in love? To not be the only single friend at every friend’s wedding, dinner, birthday and book-club gathering?
I don’t know.
The 70-year-old woman who works at my neighborhood corner store advised that I continue dating until I know what I want, and that I date one of our neighbors.
“He’s single; he’s handsome; and he dresses nice. He broke up with his girlfriend. You broke up with your boyfriend.”
I trust her, so I gave her my email address—no swiping required—and planned to meet this neighbor date on Friday. These are the events that followed:
The Preparation
4:03 p.m.: I text my best friend in Berlin and ask her to stalk my date on LinkedIn since he’s not on Facebook.
6:44 p.m.: I decide I will get ready in two minutes.
7:08 p.m.: I choose to wear tights because I haven’t shaved my legs in three weeks.
7:22 p.m.: I leave house eating piece of salami.
7:26 p.m.: #Blessed for thesandy piece of gum I find at the bottom of my bag.
The Date
7:31 p.m.: I approach the bar and consider leaving, but I know my neighborhood market grandma would be disappointed.
7:32 p.m.: I spot my date in the bar! We hug lightly but awkwardly since we are strangers, and our only common thread is our neighborhood-market grandma. I order cocktail number 1.
8:03 p.m.: I have been pretending for the better part of a half hour that I can hear everything my date is saying, but in reality, I have heard only 65 percent of it because the bar is very loud. I order cocktail number 2.
8:11 p.m.: My date and I discuss tech jobs. It is not fascinating to me.
8:20 p.m.: I go to the bathroom for a quick moment of an introvert’s retreat because I am still not fascinated. (Also, I’m scared I have a booger in my nose.)
8:27 p.m.: No booger.
8:37 p.m.: I realize I have been in the bathroom for far too long, and there is no way my date won’t think I am pooping.
8:38 p.m.: I discover that my date has ordered cocktail number 3.
8:54 p.m.: I consider telling him I wasn’t pooping in the bathroom.
9:04 p.m.: Eventually, I decide not to. I order cocktail number 4 instead.
9:14 p.m.: I’m officially (slightly) intoxicated.
After Three Cocktails
9:15 p.m.: Maybe he isn’t so bad.
9:25 p.m.: We leave the loud bar for a louder bar (introvert’s number-one nightmare).
9:32 p.m.: My date is touching my leg in a way that feels like foreshadowing.
9:43 p.m.: My date drinks another cocktail while I tear a napkin into little shredded bits, because this is a weird hamster-like habit of mine.
9:55 p.m.: I don’t know what has happened. One moment we were discussing our siblings, and the next there is a tongue in my mouth (and hint: it isn’t mine). We are kissing. At the bar.
9:57 p.m.: I tell him I have to go. I tell him that I am dog-sitting. Who let the dog out? No one, because I am here on this date. We walk outside. He calls a car to go out with friends. I wait for his car like the true gentleman I am. We continue to kiss on Mission Street. He touches my butt in public.
9:58 p.m.: My mind has changed. He is not great.
10:01 p.m.: I walk the six minutes home.
10:14 p.m.: I participate in an introvert’s dream: eating popcorn alone on the couch with a small dog.
Next time, I’m using a dating app.
