Contestant #3 far outshone the rest on paper. He was funny, attentive enough without appearing obsessive, interested in the world and from his photos appeared like he enjoyed life and liked to live in it. Some of you were hoping #3 would text/call, whatever it took to ask me out. And Thursday night he did. Minor chit chat followed by a ‘So are we going to meet up this weekend?’ I was excited. I was nervous. I was fucking petrified. This wasn’t a date. I wasn’t being picked up, I wasn’t being bought a meal or flowers and I’d never met the the man. But if it went well, goal number one for the year was close by. A real date was on the horizon.
Like any girl, while I profess to be different, I’m really not, my first thought was to panic. It was a feeling of wow and anticipation followed very quickly with ‘oh fuck.’ The sinking feeling that exists when you know you are about to be judged by a complete stranger. Like a job interview, only worse. For most of my life I’ve worried whether or not ‘they’ would like me. It wasn’t until very recently that my thought process has tried to be corrected. I’ve been informed that what I should be worried about is, will I like them? For the next 24 hours I thought of nothing else. There’s spaces where real life takes over but in the moments of silence, it pops up. What if he’s weird? What if he smells bad? What if he thinks I’m weird? What if I smell bad? The ladies at work wish me luck and send me out the door on Friday afternoon.
Drinks at the Library after work turn matters from bad to worse. What’s he do? Where’s he live? What’s he look like? He works in law, I don’t really know and ok from what I can tell. The answers are incomplete and the information substandard at best. Again they remind me it’s whether I like him, not the other way round, and send me offwith dress instructions. While that reads like it should have been a five minute conversation, it actually takes forty minutes and ends with theories on his job and instructions for a coded facebook post at the completion of my ‘drink’ no latter than 8.30pm.
Home. Shower. Dressed. Dressed. It’s easier said than done. Jeans was the consensus but what do you do with the top? The skinnier I get (and I’m still not what you call skinny) the more self conscious of my arms I get. You see when you’re big, your skin is all filled in with fat. It’s squishy but it’s not wobbly. Lose twenty kilos and the skin is loose. It hangs and crinkles in wierd directions and can be gathered into folds that if were anywhere else, can be stuffed and gathered into restrictive underwear. That can not happen to your arms. So while most days it does not bother me, today it was going to remain hidden. I tried on shirt after shirt after shirt. Taking a photo of each one and posting it to the private message group with my three best friends. The opinions were clear and even reached a consensus, but the top was sleeveless. I was runnng late. My make-up flew on my face, the hairdryer blew in the general direction of my head. Downstairs, a quick check by the flatmate, a nod of approval and out the door.
We were meeting at 7. I was at the bus stop at 6.30. I am supposed to allow myself forty minutes to catch a bus to the city. I hadn’t. At 6.22 I get a text message from #3. ‘Sorry, running late.’
‘All good. Not even on the bus yet.’ Breathing deeply, I get on the bus and zone out. I realise that this doesn’t have to make me feel as sick as it does and that he’s already a ball behind. He’s running late to a first meeting. I tell myself I’ll beat him there, get a wine down fast and be a little chirpier by the time he walks in at 7.15.
This date is best not told. I normally like to retell a good story, but this you can see for yourself. God bless the iPhone.
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| Time Lapse: Catching the ferry came through at about 7.20 Cruising came through about 7.40 The rest of the messages flowed through from 7.40pm |
AT 7.25pm, I called for back-up. The response was definite. Finish your beer and get out. You shouldn’t have waited more than 15 mins. I did wait and I waited a bit more.
8.05pm: I received the ‘Just Walked in’ text message. By the time I’d finished a pint and been able to make up stories for both the feuding families of kiwis that sat either side of me, he had only just arrived. I’d been receiving the looks of sympathy from the pissed patrons around me and you could tell they were caught between the ‘somebody should go talk to her’ look and the ‘poor bitch, she’s an idiot for waiting’ look. So what happens next? Let’s keep it short and the least painful for all of us.
At 8.10pm, the real date commenced. I am already disengaged yet slightly eager to hear his story. He arrives at the table with a jug of beer and two empty pots. He’s already bought me a drink, and hasn’t asked what I wanted. He sits down. Says, ‘sorry bout that. How was your day?’ The look on my face must have been priceless, yet he continues. He asks about my job today and then moves on. I return to the story of being late and he offers that the man on the ferry didn’t tell him how long it would be. There’s one more half arsed, ‘Yeah, I didn’t mean to be that late,’ and he continues.
His meaty hands poor me a beer and it is only then that I notice the differences between his profile photos and who is actually sitting in front of me. This man is about ten years older than the profile photos I have seen. There is not trace left of the man that plays frisbees on the beach, climbs mountains or hangs out in large groups of people. What I have is a man whose jowls almost touch his neck wearing a suit coat with what I can only imagine he thinks is a cool t-shirt. He’s talking, and he talked a lot. He told me the Shane Warne story. He told me a number of other stories about a life lived long ago. At about the twenty minute mark, he came up for air. ‘Are there scrub turkey’s everywhere in this city?’ I answer yes. And inform him that between the possums and the scrub turkeys, Brisbane’s wildlife population is rife through suburban and city homes alike. ‘Oh.’ was his response.
At about this point the man behind me takes pity. He mouths over #3’s shoulder, ‘Are you ok?’ I smile and nod and put him at ease and send him back to his beer. #3 turns quickly. ‘What’s that about? I’m with someone here.’ It is then that I excuse myself to the bathroom. There is a wait and some inane chit chat and the woman with the hot pink lipstick says to me ‘Are you on a date?’ With a grimace and slow remark I reply.
She smiles, pats me on the shoulder and says, ‘Get out sweetheart. It’s not worth your time.’
On return, I sit and #3 goes back to another story that happened to him years ago. At 8.45 the conversation slows. Well, he does and he looks at the empty jug in front of him. I check my watch and he says, ‘Should I get another jug?’
Sorry #3, I’m being picked up at 8.45, cocktails with the girls. It was great to meet you. Shake hands. ‘I’d really like to do this again and maybe not be so late next time.’ he says. I smile, say ‘We’ll see,’ and walk gallantly out the door. I am laughing when I get into the car. I laugh all the way home and all the way to the bar with my friend. She laughs at my inability to cut and run and my ability to have the worst luck with men ever. We buy cocktails, we drink them freely and laugh about the dating lives we live. She says, ‘1 hour late, 10 years older than you thought, 40kgs heavier than he advertised… Realising you’re out of his league, priceless.’
And for the first time, I realise I am. I am out of number three’s league. I deserve more than that. I have more self respect than ‘sorry bout that’ and I want people in my life that value the time they spend with me. I walked out of that date at 8.50pm Friday night. He sent me a text at 10.15. My phone was dead. I was unable to answer. The next one at 8.47pm Saturday night, that one I didn’t want to answer. I am much happier being on my own rather than sharing it with people who are false or can’t read a ferry timetable. The end of round 1. The bell has gone, but the towel hasn’t been thrown in. Just going to wait for a more worthy opponent. Somebody find me contestant #4.
life in big frilly knickers 