Bachelor Number 1 and I exchanged a number of seemingly informative and, by all accounts, acceptable emails before I agreed to meet him for a drink at a popular steakhouse. He was employed as a police officer from The City. I’d never dated a police officer, but my uncle was a detective sergeant and we like him in the family, so that was good enough for me.
We had not agreed to dinner, having instead decided to eat beforehand and just have a drink and “see how it goes.” In my 20s, this would be unthinkable—rude even. In my 30s, I have the sense to know that agreeing to dinner could result in a minimum of two very awkward or agonizing hours spent with a stranger. We’ve all been there—on the receiving end of a one-sided conversation or desperately trying to pull a conversation out from the dead. Why put yourself through that unnecessarily?
So I arrive at the steakhouse a sensible five-minutes early. Now a woman by herself in any bar environment is uncomfortable. I could have been “fashionably late” to ensure I didn’t have to sit by myself for a while, but I didn’t want to keep this man I had never met waiting for me. I wish he’d have made the same consideration.
Ten minutes and two waitresses pass. Finally, I order myself a drink. I check my phone (both to see if he called and to appear under no uncertain terms as though I was, indeed, waiting for someone important). I read through the menu and consider appetizer options. I touch up my lipstick. Fifteen minutes.
I consider calling him, but then I decide if he was blowing off our date, calling him would make me appear desperate. The nice man and woman in the little table next to me comment: “Who would make a woman such as yourself wait like this?” Me: “Someone I haven’t met.” They ask me to join them, and I thank them sincerely but decline. Two more minutes pass and finally my date arrives.
BN1 seems a little frazzled and he apologizes, giving me the standard excuse for running late in The City: Traffic. He sees I have a drink already and he orders himself a beer. I notice his difficulty making eye contact—moreover, I notice his eyes darting all over the place. Is he high? This is disconcerting. He goes so far as to look over his own shoulder. Is he watching a game on one of the TVs? He seems on edge, which makes me uncomfortable and glad I agreed to a drink and not an entire meal. Resume small talk.
BN1 declares he’s starving and asks me if I want any food. I remind him that I ate BEFORE coming to meet him. He decides to order a dinner salad. Wonderful. We briefly review that he is a cop and that he's been Internet dating for about eight months now.
His huge salad arrives and BN1 digs in with frenzy. Am I sure I don’t want any? Definitely don’t want any. This could be a while. Should I order another drink? At this point, I’ve already paid for my first drink. Considering how BN1’s eyes keep darting all over the place, I decide I’m better off without another drink.
His darting eyes are making me paranoid, so I finally ask him what he’s looking for. He doesn’t understand my question, so I explain. He laughs and says that since he’s a cop, he’s “trained” to be “on the lookout” and it’s natural to him to behave this way. I reassure him that the likelihood of anything “going down” at this nice steakhouse was slim to none. He laughs at me. Since I can’t relate, I decide that I’d rather be with an observant cop than a lazy one.
I read from his profile that he has a son. That’s a topic of interest and importance to me, so I inquire. How old is your son? He’s five. Resume small talk with questions about being the father of a 5-year-old. Mostly I want to see how he talks about his relationship with his son. Is he involved? Is he proud? Is this a source of frustration for him?
Then I ask: What’s his name? His name is John.
Then I ask “How do you spell that? J-O-N or J-O-H-N?” This seems like an innocuous question. I could probably walk up to 1,000 people with sons named “John” and ask them this question without incident. But not tonight. Not on this date.
“Funny you asked that!” he says without looking up from his salad. “It’s spelled with a ‘Q’.” If I were eating, I would have spit up my food. Instead, I assume I misheard him. “Excuse me?” I ask. “With a ‘Q’,” he confirms.
I have a pretty sharp sense of humor by most standards, so I wonder if this a joke, you know, “John Q. Public” or does he love James Bond movies? Is he mocking my question? No, he’s serious. Completely serious.
“How do you spell ‘John’ with a ‘Q’?” I ask, omitting the pronoun “Dumbass” at the end of my question.
He repeats, “With a ‘Q’.”
Me: Like Q-U-E or Q-U-E-U-E?
Him: No, just a “Q.”
Me: Holding back both the biggest WTF laugh in the world and the urge to slap him. Am I on candid camera? He was looking around like a nutcase this whole time. Who names their kid “Q?”
He explains that he wanted something different. “That’s different alright,” I confirm, wishing I had another martini. Apparently the mother of his child felt this was also a reasonable name. I have nothing to say to that.
I asked him what he thought would happen to his son when his name was called at school. He told me that his son would have to tell people how to pronounce his name correctly. I unsuccessfully tried to reestablish the fact that in no language I’m aware of (and I am “aware” of four) do they spell “John” or translate “John” with just the letter “Q.”
I realize this is pointless. I realize I’m sitting next to a person that could be certifiably something. I can’t prove it, but I suspect that either his sense of humor or sensibility is amiss. Then he does the unspeakable, well, at least it turned me speechless: BN1 actually looks at me with vacant, goo-goo eyes, stretches his pale, skinny arm out, and pets the side of my face.
Seeing this action coming toward me in slow motion, I feel my head forcing itself against the back of the booth. I would have sucked my entire head into the back of the booth if that were a possibility not beyond dimensional laws. For a split second, I even hope my alter ego in some other dimension (assuming they exist like scientists assure) was able to suck their head into the booth. I was not successful. I sat there with my eyeballs bugging out of my head as this strange man petted my face.
I asked him what he was doing. He smiled, apparently certain that his smile would still my frantic heart, and replied, “I wanted to see if it was real.”
Now I’m completely repulsed, “If what was real? My face?”
“...if your skin was real.”
If someone normally TOLD me I had nice skin, I’d be flattered and appropriately courteous. But no, petting someone’s face—someone you just met—is not a form of flattery. I am quite certain that in some countries, he might actually have lost his hand to this affront to my personal space…and hygiene. Ew.
I honestly don’t remember what we talked about after that. Eventually he finished his gigantic salad and I was able to call it a night. I didn’t even want him to walk me to my car, but naturally, he insisted.
At some point by my car, he thought it was the perfect moment to move in for a first kiss.
This time, unopposed by immutable laws of physics, I was able to suck my head out of range.
We had not agreed to dinner, having instead decided to eat beforehand and just have a drink and “see how it goes.” In my 20s, this would be unthinkable—rude even. In my 30s, I have the sense to know that agreeing to dinner could result in a minimum of two very awkward or agonizing hours spent with a stranger. We’ve all been there—on the receiving end of a one-sided conversation or desperately trying to pull a conversation out from the dead. Why put yourself through that unnecessarily?
So I arrive at the steakhouse a sensible five-minutes early. Now a woman by herself in any bar environment is uncomfortable. I could have been “fashionably late” to ensure I didn’t have to sit by myself for a while, but I didn’t want to keep this man I had never met waiting for me. I wish he’d have made the same consideration.
Ten minutes and two waitresses pass. Finally, I order myself a drink. I check my phone (both to see if he called and to appear under no uncertain terms as though I was, indeed, waiting for someone important). I read through the menu and consider appetizer options. I touch up my lipstick. Fifteen minutes.
I consider calling him, but then I decide if he was blowing off our date, calling him would make me appear desperate. The nice man and woman in the little table next to me comment: “Who would make a woman such as yourself wait like this?” Me: “Someone I haven’t met.” They ask me to join them, and I thank them sincerely but decline. Two more minutes pass and finally my date arrives.
BN1 seems a little frazzled and he apologizes, giving me the standard excuse for running late in The City: Traffic. He sees I have a drink already and he orders himself a beer. I notice his difficulty making eye contact—moreover, I notice his eyes darting all over the place. Is he high? This is disconcerting. He goes so far as to look over his own shoulder. Is he watching a game on one of the TVs? He seems on edge, which makes me uncomfortable and glad I agreed to a drink and not an entire meal. Resume small talk.
BN1 declares he’s starving and asks me if I want any food. I remind him that I ate BEFORE coming to meet him. He decides to order a dinner salad. Wonderful. We briefly review that he is a cop and that he's been Internet dating for about eight months now.
His huge salad arrives and BN1 digs in with frenzy. Am I sure I don’t want any? Definitely don’t want any. This could be a while. Should I order another drink? At this point, I’ve already paid for my first drink. Considering how BN1’s eyes keep darting all over the place, I decide I’m better off without another drink.
His darting eyes are making me paranoid, so I finally ask him what he’s looking for. He doesn’t understand my question, so I explain. He laughs and says that since he’s a cop, he’s “trained” to be “on the lookout” and it’s natural to him to behave this way. I reassure him that the likelihood of anything “going down” at this nice steakhouse was slim to none. He laughs at me. Since I can’t relate, I decide that I’d rather be with an observant cop than a lazy one.
I read from his profile that he has a son. That’s a topic of interest and importance to me, so I inquire. How old is your son? He’s five. Resume small talk with questions about being the father of a 5-year-old. Mostly I want to see how he talks about his relationship with his son. Is he involved? Is he proud? Is this a source of frustration for him?
Then I ask: What’s his name? His name is John.
Then I ask “How do you spell that? J-O-N or J-O-H-N?” This seems like an innocuous question. I could probably walk up to 1,000 people with sons named “John” and ask them this question without incident. But not tonight. Not on this date.
“Funny you asked that!” he says without looking up from his salad. “It’s spelled with a ‘Q’.” If I were eating, I would have spit up my food. Instead, I assume I misheard him. “Excuse me?” I ask. “With a ‘Q’,” he confirms.
I have a pretty sharp sense of humor by most standards, so I wonder if this a joke, you know, “John Q. Public” or does he love James Bond movies? Is he mocking my question? No, he’s serious. Completely serious.
“How do you spell ‘John’ with a ‘Q’?” I ask, omitting the pronoun “Dumbass” at the end of my question.
He repeats, “With a ‘Q’.”
Me: Like Q-U-E or Q-U-E-U-E?
Him: No, just a “Q.”
Me: Holding back both the biggest WTF laugh in the world and the urge to slap him. Am I on candid camera? He was looking around like a nutcase this whole time. Who names their kid “Q?”
He explains that he wanted something different. “That’s different alright,” I confirm, wishing I had another martini. Apparently the mother of his child felt this was also a reasonable name. I have nothing to say to that.
I asked him what he thought would happen to his son when his name was called at school. He told me that his son would have to tell people how to pronounce his name correctly. I unsuccessfully tried to reestablish the fact that in no language I’m aware of (and I am “aware” of four) do they spell “John” or translate “John” with just the letter “Q.”
I realize this is pointless. I realize I’m sitting next to a person that could be certifiably something. I can’t prove it, but I suspect that either his sense of humor or sensibility is amiss. Then he does the unspeakable, well, at least it turned me speechless: BN1 actually looks at me with vacant, goo-goo eyes, stretches his pale, skinny arm out, and pets the side of my face.
Seeing this action coming toward me in slow motion, I feel my head forcing itself against the back of the booth. I would have sucked my entire head into the back of the booth if that were a possibility not beyond dimensional laws. For a split second, I even hope my alter ego in some other dimension (assuming they exist like scientists assure) was able to suck their head into the booth. I was not successful. I sat there with my eyeballs bugging out of my head as this strange man petted my face.
I asked him what he was doing. He smiled, apparently certain that his smile would still my frantic heart, and replied, “I wanted to see if it was real.”
Now I’m completely repulsed, “If what was real? My face?”
“...if your skin was real.”
If someone normally TOLD me I had nice skin, I’d be flattered and appropriately courteous. But no, petting someone’s face—someone you just met—is not a form of flattery. I am quite certain that in some countries, he might actually have lost his hand to this affront to my personal space…and hygiene. Ew.
I honestly don’t remember what we talked about after that. Eventually he finished his gigantic salad and I was able to call it a night. I didn’t even want him to walk me to my car, but naturally, he insisted.At some point by my car, he thought it was the perfect moment to move in for a first kiss.
This time, unopposed by immutable laws of physics, I was able to suck my head out of range.
