Dating: The Sum of Its Parts

A blind date can occasionally come along, so ripe with promise and fanfare, that it takes 3 advil, a solid night's sleep and a next day recap to truly comprehend its value (or lack thereof)...

Swept up in the moment and the pre-date hype, I evaluated conversation between Daniel and I to be effortless, choice of swanky hotel bar, ideal and our walk home, promising. Unfortunately, Daniel's balance sheet, quite ample the night of, quickly found its way into the red the following morning - please see tally below:

(-10) - 45 years old and unduly concerned with my choice of colleges, his non-Ivy League education, not withstanding.
(-40) - Insistence that I used the word enamored incorrectly (which, mind you, I used with dictionary example aplomb).
(-45) - Certainty that I did not speak french after clearly telling him that I did:
L "...tried to explain to the Dr. in French."
D "You don't speak French."
L "Yes, I do"
D "Do you speak anything other than Hebrew?"
L "Ummm, yes, I speak French."
(-75) - Description of sister as "simple", followed by "admittance" that he pays for nieces and nephews college tuition.
(-75) - Discussion of five-star vacations and restaurants he takes his "middle class" parents to.
(-65) - Commentary on my accent which began with, "Do you think you have an accent?"
(-55) - Steadfastness that he wants to date only Jewish woman even though the last 10 years he dated only WASPY women.
(-70) - The commitment-phobic induced anxiety attack, he misdiagnosed as run-of-the-mill sweating and dizziness, that ensued when he went to buy one of said WASPS, an engagement ring.
(-100) - Opining on my "too Jewish" and "not quite sophisticated enough" nature to our setter-upper, in addition to his wish for more of a ballerina.

(-535) = One commitment-phobic, nouveau riche, phony 45 year old who will be searching for a Jewish (but not too Jewish), sophisticated ballerina who loves Israel, runs a hedge fund, is fluent in four languages and went to an Ivy League university, for a very very very long time.

QUICKEES

It never fails...I am peacefully eating at the sushi bar and my conversation is inevitably interrupted by the strident tones of the Sushi Aficionado(SA). Characterized by a pompous nature, a remedial knowledge of Japanese and an exaggerated reverence for sushi, the SA often befriends the sushi chef in order to wax poetic about his/her sushi history. The SA also tends to look askance at the sushi simpleton, such as myself, who prefers more of a commercial roll, steeped in spicy sauce and wasabi drizzle. Here's the thing SA, I don't begrudge you your strange, still alive, wiggling crustacean so leave me to my crunchies and tobiko, take off your imaginary kimono and have a little more of that light, yet crisp sake (obviously pronounced SAH-KAY). Dōmo arigatō, Mr. Roboto.

DATING:The One That Got Away

The one that got away – we've all had a few. The men or women of our lives whose worth we were too young, too stubborn or too drunk to realize. This darkly romantic notion has been the driving force behind novel, sonnet and song since the dawn of time, so imagine my good fortune when I was able to reconnect with one of mine. Jordan and I had only gone out a few times but there was something deeper there. I was a bit immature at the time and he was embroiled in a breakup so nothing came of it. Then, one glorious day, my friend ran into him in cyberspace and I, in a moment of insanity, reached out to him. He was genuinely excited to hear from me, was finally single and made a date with me soon after. When I saw him waiting for me at the bar I was relieved to find that he was cuter than I remembered and hopeful that he was just as soulful and erudite. He seemed a bit confused as I edged towards him and finally welcomed me with, "wow, I didn't recognize you at all, your face got longer". With this statement, Jordan managed to kick-start our date by accomplishing one of the most impossible feats in the universe: finding a bad way to tell a woman she lost weight. The date continued in fits and starts, running the topics-you-should-avoid-on-a-first-date gamut, from past relationships to politics to religion. Not only were our views diametrically opposed on almost every topic, his analysis of my answers went into such great depth that I simply could not remember what we were talking about in the first place. He waxed poetic about the "girlfriend" he should have married (who incidentally, was already married, making her very hard to marry but conveniently unattainable), dismissed any comment I made on the topic and then told me he still loved her. He followed that up with a series of short stories about a stable of close female friends, who all wanted more from him but whom he either had no interest in or after kissing, realized were better off left as friends. Determined to win me over, he then launched into a brief psychoanalysis of my reasons for not having written the book he remembered I wanted to write, 8 years prior and determined that I was afraid to fail. Sad as I was, the meal finally came to a close, we hugged goodbye and I went on my way. I walked around for quite a bit just to air out my head, the way you might if you just took a road trip to Canada with Rain Man.

Jordan called me a couple of times after that but I opted not to call him back. He was definitely one of the ones who got away, but not nearly far enough.

QUICKEES

Gents:
If you are trying to curry favor with a prospective paramour who is over 33, may I advise steering clear of the "are you considering having a baby on your own, yet?" question. For all of you that realize how ridiculous the question is, consider yourself ahead of the curve and try to help your brothers out.

DATING: It’s All In The Eyes

Meeting someone on New Year's Eve can give way to feelings of both fear and hope. Fear that the alcohol and revelry combined to skew your judgment and hope that you are wrong and this is finally the year that you will hit the dating jackpot. Fast forward a week, one 11^th hour date cancellation later, NYE guy and I made a date. I suppose the text I received from him, at 9:15, for our 9 o'clock date, that read, "I'm ready, meet me at (address of restaurant)" should have clued me in but I pressed on. Maybe the text at 9:30 informing me that he was waiting at the restaurant and the kitchen was closing soon, should have tipped me off but I persevered. Perhaps the 9:35 text where it suddenly dawned on him that I might not live next door to the restaurant (because he finally inquired), should have shown me the light. Yet, in the face of all this, I bopped (and I rarely bop) in to meet NYE guy, believing in my heart that '09 could be starting off on the right foot. I even brushed aside the "not drinking tonight because you need to test your discipline when you are in the restaurant biz" speech and happily drank alone. It was only when I realized that 40 minutes into the date, NYE guy had made eye contact with me twice, that I knew it was time to shut the book on this one. I did, however, interrupt his diatribe about the restaurant's unappealing décor to remind him that tonight, he was fortunate enough to have something better to look at, at his very own table. We left shortly afterwards, took a lovely stroll in the balmy 30* degree January air and fortuitously ended up at his scooter, where he was kind enough to hail me a cab.

Ultimately, through some cunning self-manipulation, I was able to convince myself that this was actually a 2008 date because I met him before the stroke of twelve on December, 31. Hope springs eternal.

QUICKEES

Dear Citizens:
If your life is truly so busy that you must eat on the go, while walking the streets or riding the subway, for christ's sake, bring a napkin. The banana remnants in your goatee, the last drop of yogurt that you have to lick out of the container and the ketchup from your fries that makes you look like the Joker are simply not fair to the rest of us. Have mercy.

DATING: When Hot is Not Enough

llegal, Illegal, Illegal - the three little words you've always dreamed of uttering at the end of a magical night out! Just when I thought the dating universe had aligned to provide me with a simple, meaningless "fun night out", (as a peace offering after January's dating debacle) I was grossly mistaken. Dirty blond hair, turquoise eyes, perfect chiseled features and 6'3' was a combination that was impossible for me to say no to, until now that is :-). Ahhhh "jedd", lovely handsome jedd - I gave him the benefit of the doubt that the red that was lining his beautiful ocean blue eyes was simply from a long hard day of work at the new business he opened but when he ordered a vodka and two beers to start (none of those being mine) something seemed a tad amiss. It didn't take long for Jedd to descend into a drunken stupor the likes of which I have not seen since our days of blackouts, brownouts and the Joshua Tree. He continued to order the trifecta at each order as I nursed my one Riesling, knowing I needed my wits about me to plan my escape. As Jedd continued to stumble back and forth from the bathroom, I realized that his looks were simply not enough to sustain him in the absence of even one, well formulated sentence. As I told him I thought it was time to get the check-he told me I should go, he was going to stay and proceeded to take out his bowl and his little Ziploc of green pot balls in the middle of the restaurant. He then explained to me that he had some drinks and had gotten high before the date. As I put my coat on, the only thing I found myself able to say, repeatedly, was - illegal, illegal, illegal. As Jedd advised me to loosen up on my way out, I closed the night off with one of my favorite dating salutations "give me a call from jail".

UPDATE...
Jedd texted me this morning to apologize and explain that he had shots with co-workers prior to our date, his fault completely and he understands if I hate him.
Jedd is funny, if not delusional.

Reverse Discrimination Against the Healthy

220…335…400 – their icy glare bores into me like an ex's new girlfriend and I am frozen in my tracks. "Hello ma'am, HELLO, can I get you something?" Two minutes prior, Mike could have gotten me a peppermint chocolate skim (obviously) mocha latte and sent me off into blissful anonymity. But alas, that was before an overzealous NY City Board of Health decided to hijack my treat by forcing restaurants to go public with the calorie count.

I was initially confronted with this disturbing development a couple of months ago, at a nameless baseball stadium whose inhabitants collapse a lot. My sister, my dad and I were all pumped up to get involved in our curly fries, big pretzels and other assorted culinary delights when to our dismay, each item was now accompanied by a strange number. We didn't know what to make of it, considered it might be the actual value of the item (baseball stadium joke) and that's when it dawned on us – it's the damn CALORIE COUNT. Blood drained from our faces as we realized the game we had been enjoying for so many years, that gave us the opportunity to indulge in a guilt-free annual outing, would never be quite the same again.

So now I am here, representing the millions of healthy New Yorkers and tourists (French and Italians couldn't care less though-they eat whatever they want) who no longer have a voice. The hard working, disciplined folks that go to the gym, walk when they can and watch what they eat for the most part, who no longer have a respite from their conscience. We are the careful ones; the ones that check how many calories are in our food and annoyingly discuss the fat content of items at Whole Foods. However, we are also the ones that know every now and then, a good juicy cheeseburger, a dollop of whipped cream or a pile of nachos will not kill us, they will only make us stronger. We are the nameless, faceless sufferers, who must now bear the burden of an untrusting government. A government that believes the citizenry of this great nation needs a teeny tiny government official in their pocket who says, "Stacey, do you really want to eat that? Isn't that an extra 20 minutes on the stepper?" We are now riddled with guilt at the counter and forced to take the high road. You know who we are, you see us leaving, dejected, plain tea or black coffee in our hands.

Please give us back our moments of pleasure. Our little escapes from this otherwise troubled world. Most of us know what we are doing and take responsibility for our actions. We may gain a little weight or have some stomach-aches along the way but we happily accept that. Please NY, give us back our treats, pretty please with whipped cream, caramel and sprinkles on top.

DATING: Many Times Been Bitten

It always seemed to me, that people might consider a fiancée a determining factor in their dating status. Some of my dates have not always agreed. Enter, Marty. I'm not sure what element of the Marty scenario was most disconcerting to me; the fact that he had the chutzpah to pick me up while I was waiting for another date and his fiancee was upstairs or that he planned an entire date for us that included introducing me to some of his co-workers. We frolicked through the art show opening, talking culture and politics as "ooh, so renaissancey" thoughts danced through my head. That was followed by drinks, at which point Marty dropped the engaged bomberoo. I looked around, certain I must be on one of those shows where they see how much one human being can take before having a total freak-out. Then my inner Jung took over and I asked a few probing questions: (1) Are you kidding me?; (2) Does your fiancee mind that you are dating?; and my sister's personal favorite (3) Now that I have one of you in front of me, what is it exactly, about me, that makes you types think I would be cool with this? I then realized that I was done with our session because my sangria was gone. I told him to get the check and Marty, ever the gentleman, insisted on walking me home thinking that chivalry somehow cancels out cheating. I politely declined. Apparently Marty thought he would gain some points for telling me he was engaged, which "he didn't have to do". Point spread for team Marty - insurmountable.

UPDATE…

Marty subsequently sent me an e-mail telling me he thinks of me often and signed off with a Led Zeppelin love quote (please refer to title). Enough said.