Dating Story #7 a/k/a...

Let's Take Things Slowly

As we get older, time speeds up. It often feels like a New Year has just begun when before you know it the summer months come and go and suddenly boom, the holiday season arrives and we're getting ready for another round of Auld Lang Syne. I mentioned this to my mother a few years ago, who responded: "Just wait. The older you get, the faster it goes." As this occurs, how many times have you wanted to slow things down? You know what I mean, that feeling when you need a little breather and wish time would come to a dead stop for a few minutes so you can relax and enjoy things. But life doesn't work that way. It keeps charging ahead while picking up speed.

Unless you happen to be on a date with a gentleman I'll call Y.

Y was someone I "met" online. He was a fiftysomething Southerner who had recently ended a very long-distance relationship with a man living in Paris. When we began exchanging emails, Y had only lived in New York for about a month, having come here after a job offer that was too tempting to pass up. He had been a New Yorker for such a short time that he needed very precise directions to the Upper West Side restaurant where I suggested we meet. I didn't it know then, but it was here I made a critical mistake that you, dear readers, can learn from: always, always, always have the minimum of a phone conversation before meeting face to face. Someone who seems genuinely warm, charming and normal in emails can turn out to be, well, like this...

I had been waiting for more than half an hour past our arranged meeting time when Y strolled into the restaurant. I was concerned that maybe he had gotten lost since he was still unfamiliar with finding his way around Manhattan. He had my cell phone number in case there had been a problem, but no call had come. So when we finally came face to face I asked "Did you have trouble getting here?" There was a bit of a pause before he simply said "No."

No. That was it. Nothing else. Just, no.

We were led to a table, presented with menus and left alone. I recall my first comment to Y: "It's nice to meet the person behind the emails." Y looks at my face for a split second and then turns his head a bit and looks over my left shoulder. He is seemingly staring at something taking place behind me and, whatever it is, it's so fascinating that it has rendered him speechless. He doesn't say anything. He just continues to stare over my shoulder. The silence and the staring go on so long that I start to count inside my head. One...two...three...four...five...six... seven...eight...nine... and suddenly, Y looks back at my face and says "Yes."

Yes. Just, yes.

Obviously, I need to ask a question that requires a multiple word answer. I know that he's a professor of something or other at an Ivy League university, so I try this: "Can you remind me again what you do?" The pattern is repeated. He looks at me, turns his head and stares off over my shoulder. I am tempted to turn around, figuring whatever is behind me must look pretty damn good. Maybe a shirtless Brad Pitt has slipped into a table in the back corner and his perky nipples are sending Y signals that he thinks they're meant to be together. I don't turn around. Instead, I count again. One...two...three...four...five...six...and Y says "Teach."

The waiter doesn't fare any better than I do. It feels like a lifetime passes while waiting for Y to order his first course "Salad" and his entree "Lasagna." Sitting at the table is excruciating even though it's only been about 15 minutes since we sat down. No matter what is asked, Y only answers with a one, or when he's feeling verbose, two word reply. And even then it's only after he's taken a good long gaze at the not-actually-there perky nipples of Brad Pitt. He never asks me anything about myself which I assume is simple intimidation because asking a question would require he string three or more words together. When the salads arrive, I figure I can eat quickly and get the hell out of there. I figure wrong.

It turns out that Y's speech moves at a pace akin to Nascar when compared to the way he eats. He begins his meal by oh-so-slowly cutting the salad into smaller pieces. Once every lettuce leaf, tomato, cucumber, etc has been cut, he proceeds to cut them into even smaller pieces. Two cuts become three cuts become four. When everything has finally been reduced to the size of grains of rice, he takes a mouthful and chews. And chews. And chews. And chews. And chews. This slow, steady pulverization of his salad goes on for, wait for it, an HOUR AND A HALF. I am finished with my dinner by the time he makes his first cut into his lasagna. By now, I have given up all hope of having a conversation. Instead, I sit quietly and pray for lightning to strike and kill me.

Sitting there, I couldn't help but think "I am too old for this." Dating when you have reached your mid-forties can often be tiresome and dinner with Y was one bad date too many. I signaled to the waiter "Please do me a favor and bring the check...now" and explained to Y that I needed to go. There was a moment's hesitation about bringing things to such an abrupt end, but any feeling of guilt quickly passed when I looked across the table and watched Y's obsessive cutting and chewing. Y looked confused, which I assume had to do with the fact that he didn't know how to deal with the speed at which things were suddenly moving. He sat there staring at the imagined Pitt-nipples again, his fork hanging in mid-air holding a miniscule bite of lasagna. After a few seconds pause, he predictably turned back to look me in the face and said "Oh."

Y would end up being my last bad date (although there are still earlier bad date stories to tell). Within a month of that silent, overly long dinner, I would meet my boyfriend. As for Y, I don't know where he is now but I do sometimes think of him, usually when I see a photo of Brad Pitt surrounded by Angelina and all their kids. Sometimes in those photos, Brad looks like he could really use a nice quiet dinner. I know exactly who he should call.