Dating, part 2: what doesn't kill me

When we left off, I was desperate. I so wanted someone to like me, and to prove that I could like him back, that I was grasping at anything that even looked slightly reasonable.

I was nervous, heading home from a visit to my parents’ house that happens to pass through the smaller town where he lives. And if it’s possible to schedule fun neatly in with something I have to do anyway, I’m quite pleased. And the nerves aren't bad. They're gently mixed with the hope that maybe this will work out, and I'll at least make a friend.

This was one of the few dates where I was ready to leave as soon as I saw him. I’ll defend anyone’s right to be superficial down to the ground. It just exists. As I age (not so gracefully), I’m finding that the idea of what makes someone sexy or attractive is vastly different than it once was, and it often has very little to do with how you physically look. There’s a mental quality that’s completely compelling, and I didn’t used to understand that at all. But now…well, it’s pretty intensely thrilling when you come across someone and marvel that you like the way he thinks.

Anyway, people are tied to their physical selves. The way I react to the world, my dreams, the words I choose, memories of people I love, are all housed in this really cool system of nerves and tissue and ick. (“ick” – that’s what a pricey education and post-doctoral training buys you. Nice.)

My point is that I can accept not being attracted to someone. There’s an understanding that while a man may not appeal to me, he will undoubtedly appeal to someone else. But sometimes I just can’t find that spark that makes someone sexy.

And if I was searching for a spark here, Fred was in the deeply frozen tundra that would kill any sort of heat as soon as it dared appear. The thing is, it’s all in the presentation. I like men who at least give the impression that they’re not so interested in their appearance. Casual clothing, glasses, a bit of scruffiness – I’m all for it.

But let’s start from the beginning. He was short. In fact, my 5’6” dwarfed the poor guy. Seriously. And he was in cowboy boots, and I had on flip flops, so there wasn’t a footwear issue that could correct the problem. Also, he walked funny – had this bowlegged thing going on that he took almost to a limp. As I’m relatively certain he’d never been on a horse in his life, I’m going to say that this was some sort of pretense that was having the opposite effect he hoped.

The jeans were too dark and tight. The t-shirt was threadbare, and I’m not comfortable with any shirt that tight regardless of your body type. He squinted at me from glasses that look exactly like the ones my dad wears. The scruffiness had been allowed to go too far. Acceptable was 2 days ago – either shave or make some excuse about starting a beard. So it wasn’t good.

But I also understand that the physical isn’t everything. That being short or having dark hair is not really something you can control (though the personal grooming habits, choice of eye and footwear, clothing, certainly were under his control). I sternly scolded myself, and smiled extra hard to make up for my less than kind assessment as he approached me.

His first words? “Big hug! You’re so pretty!”

My first thought? Pick a bad word. I thought them all.

This is another could go either way situation. I don’t mind being touched, and tend to find myself with my hand on people’s shoulders or arms more often than I realize as I talk to them. However, I rarely do it to strangers, and never ask for hugs. So it was awkward, and I didn’t know how to refuse without being mean, and I’m ever so rarely mean, so I hugged him and he kept holding on and I kept thinking “just a little longer, just hang on another 2 seconds.”

I finally patted him on the back through his threadbare US of A t-shirt and pulled away forcibly.

“Too much?” He asked, and I started to wonder if he recognized my discomfort and disregarded it. Which is not good when you’re standing in a parking lot and preparing to place yourself in his vehicle.

Oh, and the vehicle? A gigantic, bright red truck. With those extra lights – you know the row that sits above the cab? I think they used them to hunt kangaroo in Crocodile Dundee, so whenever I see them (and I apologize if you happen to have these or love someone who does), I think “leave the kangaroos alone!” It also had the most gigantic side mirrors I had seen before or since.

“I used to drive a semi.” He explained upon my exclamation over their size. “So I need these to back up now.”

“To back up this truck?” I asked, just to make sure.

“Uh huh. That way I don’t hit kids or dogs or anything.”

While I wondered if this was seriously a problem he had, I buckled in and contemplated if I could recall any moves from my single self-defense workshop in undergrad. I was nervous, which again, isn’t good. I firmly believe that your internal radar picks up on bad situations, and I trust it unless someone’s feelings are involved.

I’m from the Midwest, I told myself, thinking briefly of the serial killers who could make the same claim. And we’ve talked about God. He’s an EMT, for crying out loud. He’s not going to hurt you. You’re fine. Just relax.

So I calmed myself down, settled into conversation, then thought to ask where we were going since this back road couldn't be leading to the nice, safe gardens we spoke of originally.

“To my apartment.” He replied, his intense focus directed to the road.

I think I laughed – a nervous response to the knowledge that there’s a good chance that you just really f**ked up and could end up pieces of human being in a trash can in the woods behind some awful apartment complex. I debated opening the door and throwing myself out of the truck, careful to avoid the monstrous mirrors. He’d hunt you down like a kangaroo, I decided.

“Um… why are we going to your place?” I asked, trying to curb my rising hysteria, wanting desperately to giggle at the thought of myself bounding away in long hops.

“I wanted to show you around.”

“NO. No, that’s not necessary. I don’t need to see it.”

“But we’re almost there.” He replied, looking hurt. I was too freaked out to worry about his feelings at this point though. He quickly pulled into a parking lot behind the scariest apartments I’d ever seen in my sheltered little life. The stairs leading to the second floor didn’t have railings, the screens were all falling out of the windows, likely attempting some ill-fated escape themselves. It badly needed paint to the light blue exterior, and the dumpsters were located centrally in the gravel parking lot.

“Why are we here?” I asked again.

“I wanted to show you where I lived.”

“Fred.” I said, trying not to show fear, “We just met. I’m really not comfortable being alone in your apartment.”

“But there’s a book I want to give you.” He insisted. “Just for a minute.”

“OK. You go get the book, and I’ll wait here. In the truck.” I said, trying to placate, but really not wanting to enter that building.

“Why won’t you come in?” He asked, looking near tears. So, I sat there, decided that since my legs were longer, I might be able to outrun him long enough to call for help on my cell phone. I also thought of the kangaroos. If he was going to hurt me, sitting here wouldn’t help. There was an element of getting it over with, seeing what would happen next.

So, I got out and walked up the steps behind him. I know – not the smartest move here, but I was already in a bad situation! So we arrived at his second floor apartment, and he grabbed the book, and handed it to me. Then he pointed out various “amenities” like the door, windows and refrigerator, while I stood in the doorway, toes at the entrance but not inside.

We soon returned to the truck, and headed off on the interstate to the botanical gardens for the rest of our date.

“How long do I have you for?” He asked with a smile as we started driving.

“Not long!” I said too quickly. “I have plans with a friend in about an hour. I told her I might be running a little late, but that I’d be there as soon as I could.”

“I thought you said you could stay 3 hours.” He pouted.

That was before I was worried you were going to kill me, I thought, but decided against responding. Instead, I watched the cars speed past us on my side as he went 10 miles under the speed limit in the left lane.

“The left lane is for passing. You should probably move over.” I couldn’t resist saying. It’s a pet peeve and I was holding too many other statements in to add this one to the list of things I probably shouldn’t say.

And it’s true – there was no reason to be in the left lane.

With that, he yanked the wheel over and pulled onto the shoulder. And I screamed.

Braced against the door and the dash, I stared at him. “What was that?!” I wasn't sure if the cloud of dust that now surrounded us or the clash of horns from other drivers was more upsetting.

“I saw the ambulance coming.” He replied, muttering at the cars who continued going south on the interstate while the emergency vehicle proceeded north. On the other side of the 20 foot median filled with trees. I could barely see the flashing lights, but I did hear the siren.

“You should always pull over for an ambulance.” He told me.

I stayed silent, too seriously freaked out to even joke with myself in my head. But he was serious. He truly believed that it was necessary to almost cause an accident to make room for the ambulance heading opposite our direction, on the interstate, across the median. How he thought we were in the way remains beyond my comprehension.

We arrived at the botanical gardens, walked through as quickly as I could force it, then headed back to my car.

“I have a headache.” I insisted. “I really need to go home.”

“When can I see you again?” He asked, sounding pitifully disappointed.

I looked at him, surprised. He was serious though.

“My head hurts.” It was the only response I could offer, and it was painfully true.

I got out of the truck, sweet relief rushing through me. I moved quickly toward my car, unlocking the doors, and placing one foot inside before I turned to wave good-bye.

I gasped when I found him right beside me.

“So I’ll call you.” He said, standing too close.

“Fine.” I said, just wanting this to be over. I’d deal with him on the phone if need be, but I couldn’t take more of this experience in person.

“Big hug!” He said, and I gritted my teeth for 2 whole seconds before threatening to throw up.

“Sorry. My head. It’s just really bad.” I explained, wincing. “I need to go.”

After he attempted 2 more conversations, I drove off, not looking back. I laughed with M when I got home, sharing my horror and accepting the lectures about personal safety over polite responses as my due. But that, in 2002, was the last time I actually met anyone who had his dating profile online.

We still keep in touch, by the way. I sent him a wedding gift this summer, and he tells me his wife is trying to get pregnant. What I saw as terrifying was, in fact, a different form of simple desperation. He so wanted to get married and had no concept of coming on too strong.

I did talk to him on the phone after dodging 10 of his calls. I felt badly, and was also getting worried that he’d show up someday. So we talked, and I said I just wasn’t ready to date right now, and hoped he’d find someone at a better place in her life.

We emailed through his tour of duty in Iraq. I prayed for him, and sent books and a care package. I read about how he was engaged to a woman he’d never met – sending a ring through the mail so she could wear it as she made plans for their wedding in Alabama. I cautioned him against moving too fast, then rolled my eyes when he suggested I might be jealous.

She didn’t respond to the “big hug!” greeting much better than I did, giving back the ring within 5 minutes of meeting him. The next engagement didn’t fare much better, but this last one stuck.

For me, the phrase “I’d rather be alone” took on a profound meaning. But another meeting with Violet encouraged me to move past my unreasonable fear (after all, nothing bad had happened), and try dating again. So after a short break to date someone Violet found for me, realizing just in time that neither of us was all that interested, I decided to find blind dates from another source.