Wine, Dine, and Ignore

In between the sweaty palms, verbal fumbles, awkward silences, too-loud meeting places, late arrivals, and food-in-teeth moments, occasionally there is that rare moment when everything just goes right. It had been years since anything just went “right” as far as dating and I were concerned. I was growing skeptical. What if “right” had only existed in the delusional optimism of my early twenties? As a young girl, my world was consumed by fairy tales, My Little Ponies, Barbies, and spying on the TV when Mom was watching When Harry Met Sally for the fourteenth time. In the land of 1990’s romantic comedies, and Barbie and Ken, that “right” moment was always moments away, and always unfolded perfectly. I knew my own Blossom Russo-esque life was waiting for me. Disappointingly, in "2000's" era adult life, finding the “right” moment was as allusive a concept as a “great deal” on mobile phone service. The 90's had come and gone, as was my confidence that Mr. Right was going to magically appear.

Approximately four minutes into a first date with Calvin, everything was “right,” and a hunch told me it would stay that way. He was obviously a jeans and t-shirt fellow, without a crazy haircut, four inch lenses in his glasses, or a spattering of oddly shaped piercings. For some reason, I’ve always had a thing for tall fellows. Despite my somewhat nontraditional ways, I’m a sucker for a big dude. Maybe it’s because larger men make me feel somehow smaller, and I’m pretty accustomed to being a kinda large gal. At any rate, Calvin was about six feet tall, with the bonus of broad shoulders…my absolute favorite feature.

We were compatible on a million levels. Neither one of us ever wanted to leave Detroit. We both had a squirrely rescue dog and a gay roommate. We lived approximately 2.5 miles apart, in similar neighborhoods where older homes, nosey neighbors, spacious sagging porches, and a sense of community were still the norm. There were no children or ex-spouses, and we were both in the fortunate, but time consuming, situation of being overly employed. He didn’t seem to think my love of pitbulls was horrifying, and I adored the fact that he not only knew who Thornetta Davis was, but had tickets to one of her remaining Detroit-area summer performances, at a less-known place on the Eastside. Even odder bit of trivia, our mothers had the same first name.

For 45 minutes we sat and had coffee. Having left the house for a 6 p.m. coffee date, I had naturally been prepping since 4 p.m. By the time I flew down the driveway, it was already 5:52, and I was getting hungry. I secretly hoped that this would be the best date ever, and we could move on to dinner, or I could cut my losses after twenty minutes, leave, and hit up the Taco Bell drive through. Given my history, I was already planning my value menu purchases.

Everything was perfect. We left coffee and had dinner. After dinner there was the warmest hug ever, and he assured me he’d call. I went home walking on sunshine and feeling like the most fantastic girl on the planet.

When it comes to relationships, I’m not looking for people to casually date anymore. I’m looking for “it.” I want someone that’s eventually – if we’re lucky – going to live with me longer than they lived without me. I want a family, a few floppy dogs, and a house with enough walls to theoretically hold an “art” collection. I’m not a total bore. I also want a house that will hold my vodka and kitsch coffee mugs collections. Calvin was the first person far-too-long that I could imagine having a stable, adult relationship with. After all, he’d rather strongly implied that he was interested in the same sort of grown-up life that I was. After the best first date ever, I was feeling extremely lucky.

Ya know when I next heard from Calvin? Two weeks later, and then four weeks after that. “Dating” someone for six weeks, and only seeing him three times, is not the sort of adult relationship I am looking for. Men are baffling. After playing it cool, I resorted to throwing myself at him, which was embarrassing, but made me feel like I’d at least made the effort. I won’t go into these ridiculous details, but be assured that no illegal/creepy stalking occurred. I assumed that embarrassing myself would be enough for Calvin. It wasn’t. I looked stupid, and – rather obviously – remain single. What is this tale’s moral? If there has to be one, it would be “don’t design a pitbull-proof landscaping plan for your vodka-and-art stuffed house before a man has brought you flowers.”