The title of this post should’ve saved you a click. Why string you along when I can dispense with the long tales and tell you all three dates the Matchmakers set up were duds? You’re welcome.
It’s been a while since I posted, so get caught up. Read Step One: Meeting My Matchmakers, Describing my ‘Match’…
To be fair, date number one wasn’t a disaster. It was actually one of the best first dates I’ve had. He was ambitious, nice-looking, smart, funny, had a great job, loved his family. Our conversation was easy, fun, relaxed. So what was wrong with him, you ask? Absolutely nothing, we simply lacked chemistry. We enjoyed each other’s company, sure but there wasn’t a spark for either of us.
As a brief aside, dating is mostly misses. It only has to work once. Which means, by design, most men won’t fit the role as my match. And vice versa.
What I took from this first pairing was the Matchmakers seemed to have a good pool of people from which to draw. Translation: men who have their shit together. So after meeting Match Number One, I informed Amanda I had more trust in their organization in finding Mr. Right.
The Matchmakers told me Ed was a “good dresser,” and I should feel free to posh it up a bit with a dress. This is what I pictured:
Thinking Ed was some facsimile thereof, I went out and purchased a summer dress (this happened over the summer, yes I know it’s October now). The dress I purchased was size small. Remember that detail.
Knowing the first date the Matchmakers set up was with a great guy, we just lacked chemistry, and the second, Ed, was a “good dresser,” my expectations were high.
We’ll call this error number one.
Ed was nothing like I’d pictured (that of a genteel, sophisticated Seattleite). No, no, Ed was an unattractive, obese man, probably in his forties. He had more boob cleavage than I did, having forgone Kramer’s advice by failing to use a “Man-zier.” He reminded me not of Frasier Crane, but of Ed Rooney from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Just 100 pounds heavier.
I assumed, because I was so uncomfortable, I emitted kill-me-now signals. I even opened the date with “I have to work tomorrow morning” a truism, yes, but also a signal. A giant, Ed-sized signal. Practically a blimp. The Hindenburg. Exploding.
Ed didn’t take the hint. He also kept touching my arm whenever he made a point. Queen of mixes signals though I may be, I never emitted the “please touch me” signal to Ed. The “please may I choke on my own spit” signal, yes. The “touch me flirtatiously” signal, no.
No. No. No.
Because I failed to think of a convincing reason to leave the cafe (error number two)–that is besides borrowing a blowtorch to set my hair on fire–the bartender rudely told us there was another reservation at nine. Finally my escape! I had to leave the bar, another reservation! There is a GOD! I can GO HOME! Maybe I would join a convent! Be free of men entirely! YES!
I’m not going to share Ed’s profession, but let’s just say he’s not a detective. For despite all my obvious signals I wasn’t interested, not the least of which was trying to make myself smaller on my barstool to escape his unwanted touching, Ed asked to exchange numbers.
Mentally I said this:
In reality I said “No thanks, but it was nice meeting you,” as I tripped over my barstool to get the hell out, oh my gawd.
Obviously I never saw him again. Obviously I’m not sad about it. Obviously the Matchmakers were going to hear from me. Obviously the email was going to be raw and unfiltered.
But not before the second date I had that weekend. Which I met with much dread and tears of frustrated despair.
I went out to meet Phil the following Sunday, with expectations reset to levels which could only be seen with an electron microscope. This time I wore comfortable flats and jeans. I arranged with a friend to borrow a parking pass, so at least I could save ten bucks. Because I parked off “campus” I had to run to catch the ferry. I was neither sweaty nor winded when I got to the boat. Of course I thought of Ed. Who would’ve died from the exertion.
In Seattle I didn’t take a car to our meeting place. I wanted to spend as little money as possible in meeting my “match.”
The meeting place in Seattle this time was on the water, a cafe near Pike’s market. I was relieved to see Phil didn’t have the BMI of a killer whale. Already the date was an improvement over the last one. But as Phil and I talked, we quickly realized we were not compatible. At all. Knowing that, pressure was off. Time for some postmortems…
Yep, Phil and I discussed some of the dating failures these “Matchmakers” had set us up on. Phil was my third date. But Phil had been meeting “matches” for nine months.
Seattle is a deep blue liberal bastion. Phil was proudly voting for Hillary Clinton. I’m torn between voting for the zombie apocalypse, a giant meteor, or a cataclysmic frog-storm which will end all of humanity. Phil told the Matchmakers it was important he date a liberal woman. Seattle is nothing but liberalism. It’s so blue it’s black. So how the Matchmakers thought setting Phil up with me, a conservative Catholic who specifically asked for a conservative Catholic (or Christian) man, was a good idea, I still do not know. And neither did Phil.
Also, to you numbskulls who tell me my dating woes would just be solved by moving somewhere else? You’re idiots. Phil was a nice guy. And he couldn’t meet a fellow liberal. In liberal Seattle. Liberals are having a tough time meeting fellow liberals in Seattle. So your “Just move someplace with your values” talking point is dumbassery at its finest. Shut up.
Phil and I parted ways knowing we’d never see each other again, but both vowing to contact the Matchmakers with a WTF are you people thinking thru line.
Which I did. With much the same tone as this blog post. It’s me, what did you expect?
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