Monday, June 2, 2014

How I Know That I'm Pretty Much OK

A couple of months ago I went on a date with someone (via OKcupid) who was a little too easy to internet stalk in advance. I found his website, which included videos of his various achievements and artistic endeavors. I had a lot of time to review this various material and by the time we met I was a bonafide fan. I typically find no correlation between my feelings about a person's talent and my feelings toward them as a person (sexually or otherwise) but I couldn't turn down the opportunity to spend time with someone who was, by my estimation at the time, somewhat brilliant.

There was also the small matter of his looks. His face was classically handsome but colored with the intrigue of permanent exhaustion and he had a subtle darkness to his style. His look was (or is I should say, as far as I know he isn't dead) somewhat divergent from my current taste in men, but absolutely everything I was looking for when I was 15. I should mention that he was 31 at the time, so the style I'm describing isn't that of a young man trying to appear wearily recondite on purpose, but an adult who just is that way through circumstance. Or at least that was my impression. Maybe he spends hours in front of the mirror every morning to create that effect. If you can't tell by now I didn't end up getting to know him that well.

We met for coffee in the West Village on a Saturday night which then turned into drinks which then turned into "oh shit its 4 AM and they need us to leave now".  So it at least went well enough that neither of us ran away screaming into the night after the first location. I found it a bit hard to relax and talk about myself normally though. Something about being around someone whose work I am enamored of fucks with my confidence and I also didn't want to spend the whole night telling him how funny and talented I thought he was. At one point in the date we passed a storefront for a crepe shop which was attached to a bar. I pointed this out and he responded by squinting at it for a second and saying "Date crepe". I whole heartedly believe that this is the funniest thing that anyone will ever say to me, and at the time I couldn't even laugh because I was too impressed.

That isn't exactly the end of the story, but the only further important information is that he seemed ambivalent about seeing me again so far as dating was concerned and he kept the hours of a clinically depressed bat* so I didn't see much point in angling for another date*. Rather than being bummed about it not "working out" ***, I was kind of just thrilled to have had the experience. In college if someone to whom I had this kind of positive reaction didn't give me enough attention, I would have fallen apart and spent my nights weeping into a bottle of Andre sparkling wine while listening to John Mayer. Currently it would seem that I am able to appreciate my dating experiences for what they show me about myself, as well as for the simple pleasure of spending time with an interesting person, without escalating into a state of emotional instability. I'm happy to say that I have yet to wake up crying on my floor while puking cheap wine into a paper bag since being single. I wish I could say the same for my 18 year old self.

*The guy wasn't depressed as far as I know. I just think a depressed bat would probably keep similar hours to someone who makes a living writing/telling jokes and creating art.]
** I didn't NOT show up at his door partially unannounced later on, but that was due to entirely unrelated dysfunction.
*** The post after this one elaborates on the fact that I don't know what "working out" even means to begin with.

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