I went on a blind date last week with a really nice guy. Nice like a cup of luke warm tea. Nice like a garden salad, no dressing. Nice like fat free, sugar-free yoghurt... You get the point. This was someone who was really good for me on paper – kind, gentle, smart, healthy. But after talking to him for about three minutes my mind drifted to how I was going to get home and what length of time constituted an actual date. I tried. I really tried to find him interesting. The old me would have thrown in the cocktail napkin within minutes, but the new, improved me gave it two and a half hours. That I’ll never get back. Ever.
At one point desperate to get conversation flowing, I pulled out my fail-safe ‘man card.’ Though I had no desire to launch into a chat about England’s brave, but average, performance in the Ashes series (sorry my lovely Englishes) or the highly anticipated upcoming Rugby World Cup, I had strong desire to break the awkward silence. So I asked the question... “Right, uh… do you like sport?” He paused for a moment, “I’m glad you asked that” said he, “I’m actually really into golf.” Great. I know nothing about golf. I’m pretty sure that it isn’t even technically a sport. I’m sure I get just as much exercise as golfers do from a successful shopping spree – and I carry my own bag. Just saying.
I tried to hide behind my humour – which, to be fair, is an acquired taste – and mentioned my shopping-golf analogy. He didn’t crack the faintest of facial movements. Not even a pity cackle. Nothing. Somehow we got onto the topic of football. Phew! I played a bit of soccer when I was a kid. I was confident I had the conversation back under control. I smugly declared that I knew the offsides rule and that he should test me. Score. He took a polite pause and then even more politely informed me that “most, or perhaps many, people (careful avoidance of gender stereotypes but he was practically screaming “women”) aren't aware that it's changed recently”. Not so smug.
After we finished our first round, he asked if we should get more drinks. “Sure” I answered, even though I was considering propping up my eyelids with ice cubes. He didn't budge. He was being a feminist. When I realised this I jumped up with a little too much enthusiasm and played fetch. Now, call me sexist, but where I come from, guys collect the drinks. If the woman you're with is balancing two glasses filled with ice and two bubbling bottles, stumbling through a crowded pub in heels, you have failed at life. So this weird shift in gentlemanliness left me slightly perplexed. I mean, this guy seemed so well mannered, so well brought up.
On returning from the bar, I downed the drink – I earned it. Then I announced my departure. He waited for me to pass him and as I reached the door awkwardly pushed past me and then clumsily let the door go. It swung back almost knocking this maiden over. At which point I was pretty sure he had no interest in me either. Things got weirder when he gave me the odd cheek peck thing and stated "it would be good to see you again." That’s when I did the swivel and dash. Shamelessly. I practically sprinted up the cobbled high street in heels. It hurt.
So it wasn’t a good experience, in fact it wasn’t even an average one. But I’m glad I went on the date. Because it was good practice. It took me out of my comfort zone and introduced me to a bunch of new things on the list of what I don’t want. Sometimes through experiencing bad, we get closer to identifying good. We learn more about what we truly desire – the right job, real friends, meaningful adventures, the perfectly imperfect partner. Maybe it’s ok to fail at small things, so we can grow and build towards getting the big things right.
After many little moments of wrong maybe one day I’ll meet someone right. Someone who sweeps me off my feet for the right reasons. Who appreciates my weirdness. Who connects with my self-deprecating, warped sense of humour. Who fetches the drinks. Who knows?
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