I was feeling very clever that I had managed to rustle up a Back-Up Date when my first choice date had inexplicably vanished. (He texted ad nauseum all weekend about how excited he was for our Tuesday date, then, apparently, went into the Witness Protection Program. A post on the inscrutability of men forthcoming at some later date).
Back-Up Date had been floating around the periphery for a while, suggesting a drink. He is younger than I am, and is living up to my Rule of 43. The Rule of 43 states, simply, this: men over 43 years old know that a first date means dinner, chivalry and subliminally displaying your powers of providership. (We don’t need you to provide for us, but we want you to show that you could if we wanted you to. Women decoded. You’re welcome). Men under 43 apparently didn’t take that course in school, and can’t be bothered with all that effort. They want to get in for a quick and commitmentless assessment of the goods before getting food involved in the equation.
So, okay, I play with the under 43-ers from time to time. And I go along with the drink thing. Far be it from me to demand sea bass on a first date.
I am not expecting great things from Back-Up Date, so when I see him, I am not so much disappointed as reaffirmed. (I do finally understand why his dating site picture was so dark). The memo has not reached his eyeballs that the hair on the top half of his head is gone. No disrespect for my bald brothers- I actually think bald can be super-sexy with a nice buzz cut and a little salt and pepper at the temples. What is required to make bald work is… acknowledgement. It’s gone, buddy. Stop styling it like it isn’t. Back-Up Date has not come to grips with this reality, allowing the bottom half of his head to grow unruly with wild curls, then greasing those back into an elaborate half-Sonny Crockett ‘do, a sad, unmanaged peach fuzz blowing unprotected on the dome of his head.
I pause briefly to channel my inner Charlotte, from Sex and the City. She had her Perfect Guy, and he was beautiful to look at, pedigreed, rich, but not right for her. Then she got with that short, troll-y guy and he was really good to her and they lived happily ever after. I chant quietly to myself: “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” and plaster on a smile.
The thing is, Back-Up Date doesn’t have much to say, either. Even if I can let the unfortunate hair slide, the no conversation thing is a deal breaker.
It goes something like this:
Me: “So, tell me about your work.”
Him: “IT, something, something, something, server migration, something, DNS…” (fade out, then fade in five minutes later)… “Coaxial cable, IT, server, something.” Too many men, I am learning, talk way too much about the boring details of their work way too soon.
I wait for him to ask about mine, but he doesn’t, which this week is a good thing.
It goes on like this, me sipping my vodka and cranberry, him chugging beers and trying to explain something to me about football and locks. (background music swells… play sound of me glazing over).
Then, the only part of the date truly worth remarking on happens.
He winds up for the pitch.
“So, what’s your gig?” he asks.
“My gig?”
“Yeah, you know, like, whaddaya wanna do?”
“We’re having such a nice chat,” I smile, and I am sure he doesn’t catch the irony.
“Yeah, I mean, but you wanna get out of here?”
“Yes, I guess it’s getting late.”
“I mean, so are you, like, DTF or what?” he says, sheepishly, like he wants to be able to claim later that he was joking if I call him on saying that.
I have no idea if I’m DTF, since I have no clue what it stands for. I vaguely wonder if he is asking if I’m some sort of federal agent.
I hate admitting ignorance, so I smile stupidly, nod, and say, “Yeah, so I guess it’s time to go home, huh?”
He seems unnaturally happy about this, so much so he forgets that he’s an under-43-er and he doesn’t pay for things. He rolls a bunch of bills onto the bar table and hurries me to my car.
Before I can think of an inane thing to say for a good night, he’s on me. It takes a shove to pry him off.
He looks shocked.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m going home.”
“Aww, yeah? Cuz I thought we were gonna go… you know… hang out.”
“No, I’m tired, but thanks.”
He turns to go and I jump in my car and lock the doors. I drive a few blocks, then pull over and Google “DTF.”
Urban Dictionary informs me that it’s a Jersey Shore-ism, and it stands for Down To F–k. Apparently, I have given this poor man the indication that I was indeed DTF, then left him standing in the parking lot, hopes dashed, with no explanation.
Which, I guess, makes me an inscrutable creature too.
Back-up Date, no, I am most certainly not DTF. Not you, anyway.
12 down…
Highest clicked-on posts:
Plenty of Fish Chats – I Think My Eyeballs are Bleeding
Date # 12 – Back-up Date is DTF. Am I?
Catch-up on all the dates:
Date # 1 – Bill a/k/a Angry Guy
Date # 2 – Little Johnny
Dates # 3-10 – Speed Dating
Date # 11 – George, Mr. Perfectly-Nice, Not-For-Me
Date # 12 – Back-up Date is DTF. Am I?
Date # 13 – The Scariest of All
Date # 14 – Just What’s Your Angle Buddy?
Date # 15 – A Threesome
More about the 51 First Dates After Divorce Project
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