The first date went well. We shared engaging conversation on a multitude of topics. He opened doors. He didn’t drink too much. He made me laugh and feel relaxed, which was refreshing. He even walked on the street-side of the sidewalk—and knew exactly why he should. I was relieved and impressed.
At the end of the evening, he walked me to the doors of my apartment complex. I graciously thanked him for the evening and gave him a sincere hug. Then it happened: My first clue. He pulled me back toward him and attempted to kiss me. Yes, he attempted—I shunned his attempt and he literally looked peeved.
“Are you serious?” he laughed.
“It’s a first date,” I stated. “I don’t know you.”
Now, as the saying goes, I "said it with a smile." I then shifted into “Coy-and-Cute Mode.” So as not to offend, I sprinkled on some reassurance, “You’ll just have to ask me out again so I can learn more about you.” On the spot, he asked me out for the following Friday. Worked like a charm! I may have bruised his ego a smidge by not swooning at the chance for our lips to meet, but I really wasn’t concerned. A kiss is just a kiss to most people, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t broken my unspoken rule before, but this time I wanted to be cautious.
As I walked the long corridor to my apartment, I mentally remarked at how enjoyable the evening was and caught the reflection of my perma-grin in the mirror. This was good! This was NOT blog worthy! I could face my friends at work the next day without receiving looks of sympathy. Then came the day-after text message...
Message: “How are you? I must say, I’m pretty impressed with you. Your (his misspelling, not mine) hot, smart, fun, and down to earth…”
Hot? Did he really say that? Why did he have to say that? I will put my phone down and pretend I didn’t see that. He probably has no idea how that sounds to most women.
Then a half-hour later came the next text message...
Message: “How did you get so damned hot?” Augh.
I consulted my panel of experts: Women in successful relationships; Men that were just in it to hit it and quit it; My best male friends—married and unmarried. Was this creepy, icky feeling in my stomach warranted or was I being too hard on a man that was just paying me a compliment? The reactions of The Panelists were mixed, but the majority told me to “chill” and not read into it. Perhaps he wasn’t really objectifying me and just looking for sex? But as I ended my discussion with a colleague while leaving work, I warned her that he had better not get handsy.
Date No. 2: It’s on! An ‘80s rock cover band was playing locally. On our first date, Mr. T and I reminisced about our favorite ‘80s rock music and he told me how much he enjoyed bands. Sure cover bands are a bit corny (they’re supposed to be). They’re rowdy (but by the end of the week, I love some sensory overload). Since bands always start late, Mr. T said he’d meet me at the place where the band was playing.
I arrived before he did, so I checked my coat and waited. When he arrived, he paid for himself. Ok. Maybe he thought I already paid? So I paid my cover. Shake it off, sister.
He bought each of us a beer and the band came on shortly thereafter. I was very pleased when he told me how great the band was and how this was “such a good idea.” Song after song, he smiled more and laughed when songs surprised him from the past. When the band broke into a Beastie Boys montage, I leaned back and clinked our beer bottles together, as in toasting the sentiment “Awesome!” This is when Mr. T began to emerge and reveal himself like sunburn.
“If you do that again, I’ll have to kiss you.”
Self: Huh? I must have heard that wrong. Response: Give puzzled expression.
“If you lean back like that again, I’m going to kiss you.”
Self: Warning shot fired and noted. Apparently we are going down this path again.
“I told you, I take things slow. You don’t even know my birthday or middle name.” This was completely logical to me.
“When’s your birthday?” he blurted. I answered.
“What’s your middle name?”
I replied, stripping off bits of "Coy-and-Cute Mode" in favor of "Don’t-Make-Me-Get-Out-My-Can-of-Whup-Ass Mode." He looked confused for a second (my middle name isn’t common), but he quickly dismissed his confusion so as not to veer off course.
“Now that we got that out of the way…” he smiled. I swear it was a semi-creepy smile. Reminded me of Mark Harmon as Ted Bundy. Ew.
Self: Easy there, Killer. You’re missing my point. So I explained that you only get a first kiss once. When you know someone better, you feel a connection and the kiss is natural.
He shrugged, “I get it. That’s true.” His demeanor appeared to soften.
Self: Situation leading to compromised principles averted. Resume dancing and consider ways to stroke his ego without leading him on.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. T must have decided to try alternate tactical maneuvers. He tightened my dance space so I could feel him behind me. Then he put his hands around my waist—Try rockin’ out to Bon Jovi with someone cramping your dance space. Dude, “Runaway” isn’t a slow song! (Hindsight: I should have taken that song as another clue.)
“Does this make you uncomfortable?” he said in my ear (not so much a whisper, as we were listening to a band).
“Kind of, yes, it does,” I replied gingerly. Self: Don’t poke the tiger with a stick.
“Oh, it does? This makes you uncomfortable?” so he held me tighter, laughed, and then released me.
Now I’m thinking he’s just a butthead. Thankfully, Mr. T went to get another beer. About a half-hour later and in the middle of a very kickass rendition of a Heart song, someone put their hands on my shoulders and forcibly moved me over about four feet. Stumbling and startled, I turned around and tensed up preparing to shift into "Black Mamba Mode" (i.e. hold bottle firmly and thump guy on head if necessary). No, not the snake...think “Beatrix Kiddo” stunningly played by Uma Thurman in Kill Bill I & II. Makes more sense now, doesn’t it?
I’m 5-feet nothing and though I can kick a 6-feet-tall man in the head (yes, I totally can), this kitten only scratches accidentally (well, usually—but that's another story). So I’m wondering where Mr. T went just when he was called to duty! That’s when I realized that it was Mr. T that did that to me! What the heck?
Before I could even ask, he provided what he believed to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, “If I didn’t move you, I was going to have to beat the sh** out of three guys behind you.”
What? I know we’re jamming to ‘80s music, but I swear we didn’t actually go back to high school. I wouldn’t have signed up for that! Mr. T was the only person bothering me. No one else was forcing themselves on me.
Let’s clear this one up, shall we? Women are used to men watching them dance with their girl friends at night clubs. It’s no big deal. It’s a compliment as long as they don’t get aggressive or rude. That said, no one was dancing with me except Mr. T. Besides, my eyes were generally nowhere—in crowds, I pretty much get to stare at the backs of heads.
Here we are, all of us having a blast sharing music we grew up with—all of us dancing and singing horribly together in mass elation, well, except for me. And Butthead dropped his fun card on the floor about an hour ago. I had no idea what to say so I shrugged it off and gave his forearm a little squeeze in thanks of his gesture to, I guess, "defend my honor."
Naturally, one gigantically oversized man puked in a garbage can next to us before being hauled out by his friends. Thank God the band was worth the headache I was getting from all the drama. Then to my horror, the lead singer pointed at me and the two girls dancing next to me. He then proceeded to jump off the stage and dance with us while singing an entire song that I can’t recall (for obvious reasons). Ok, that was pretty fun even if he was very sweaty and dressed like someone’s pervy uncle in an Elvis wig and Liberace-rhinestone belt.
After that moment in the spotlight, two guys I went to college with reintroduced themselves to me. It was bizarre to run into them at this little Irish bar in the middle of a random Chicago suburb. This must have been it for Mr. T. His territory had been breached and it was my fault.
Frat Guy No. 1 leaned over to me and said, “Hey, I think your husband left.”
“He’s NOT my husband! What are you talking about?” I asked looking around.
Frat Guy No. 2, “He’s not your husband? He was looking at us the whole time like he wanted to beat the crap out of us!”
Self: How special.
“Yeah, I think he took off. Did he leave you here?” asked Frat Guy No. 1.
Self: Fabulous.
They go back and forth with mutual dismay over my situation. I can’t believe he ditched me, so I tried texting him, asking him where he was. Obviously, I received no response. I started scanning the crowd, feeling pretty much paranoid.
Is he watching me from a distance? Is he coming back?
I waited 15 minutes before I decided this was way too uncomfortable. I felt safe with the guys I knew from college (it’s that whole “Alumni Bond” thing or something), but the fact that some angry, jealous guy might be hiding in the crowd watching me was more than I could take.
A bouncer walked me to my car (thank God I drove myself), and I drove around for a while before actually turning in to my complex in case someone was following me. I know: Paranoid much? I made several unsuccessful attempts to further ensure my safety (tried to reach the apartment security; followed a police car flashing my lights; phoned an incoherent friend). Clearly I was on my own to handle this like a big girl.
I was feeling extremely insecure and really wishing I had never moved away from my hometown in the first place. At least there, I had a huge brother-in-law and a protective father and brother that I could call in a pinch. I told myself to buck up and stay alert. Then I ran to my building like my ass was on fire!
Self: He knows the building I live in, but he doesn’t know where I live in the building. And my building is locked.
I scurried up the back entrance and down my hallway, looking and listening with the intensity of that crazy face-petter cop I went on one date with not nearly long enough ago. (See earlier blog.)
After a long phone conversation with Mom in the middle of the night, I was able to sleep. The next day I decided to take the evening for what it was worth. First, the band was—say it again—awesome! Second, I should definitely trust my instincts. If he acts, walks, and talks like a, well, er, another word that’s one vowel off of “duck,” then he probably is one. Third, dinner dates are probably better choices for second dates than bands playing at bars. Heck, I’d even suffer the pain and humiliation of ice skating instead. Oh the horror of reliving any moonlight skate ever again...
Finally, I’m sure I don’t need to state the obvious: This is exactly why I don’t kiss on a first date! The “right guy” will respect my boundaries. He will be secure enough to know that when I’m with him, I’m with him—I choose to be with him and not with any other guy in the room. He will not objectify me. A simple, sincere, “You look nice,” is all I want to hear from a guy I hardly know. The man I want telling me I make him feel hot and bothered is the man who comes home to me every night. He’s the one that doesn’t need a shackle on his left ring finger to remind him he’s My Man. He doesn’t care if I’m wearing pigtails and sweatpants. He keeps my secrets, he “gets” my sense of humor, and even if he can curl 100 lbs. with one arm, he’s not going to strut around puffed up acting like an, ahem, another name for a rooster.
Sure, I could have kissed this guy on the first date, but I would have compromised my principals and felt skanky the next day. Even in those "movie moments" of my life, I always knew in the beginning how a relationship would end. No matter what the leading man of the night thought, when the music died and the credits rolled, I’d always know that he would have been kissing a fool.
At the end of the evening, he walked me to the doors of my apartment complex. I graciously thanked him for the evening and gave him a sincere hug. Then it happened: My first clue. He pulled me back toward him and attempted to kiss me. Yes, he attempted—I shunned his attempt and he literally looked peeved.
“Are you serious?” he laughed.
“It’s a first date,” I stated. “I don’t know you.”
Now, as the saying goes, I "said it with a smile." I then shifted into “Coy-and-Cute Mode.” So as not to offend, I sprinkled on some reassurance, “You’ll just have to ask me out again so I can learn more about you.” On the spot, he asked me out for the following Friday. Worked like a charm! I may have bruised his ego a smidge by not swooning at the chance for our lips to meet, but I really wasn’t concerned. A kiss is just a kiss to most people, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t broken my unspoken rule before, but this time I wanted to be cautious.
As I walked the long corridor to my apartment, I mentally remarked at how enjoyable the evening was and caught the reflection of my perma-grin in the mirror. This was good! This was NOT blog worthy! I could face my friends at work the next day without receiving looks of sympathy. Then came the day-after text message...
Message: “How are you? I must say, I’m pretty impressed with you. Your (his misspelling, not mine) hot, smart, fun, and down to earth…”
Hot? Did he really say that? Why did he have to say that? I will put my phone down and pretend I didn’t see that. He probably has no idea how that sounds to most women.
Then a half-hour later came the next text message...
Message: “How did you get so damned hot?” Augh.
I consulted my panel of experts: Women in successful relationships; Men that were just in it to hit it and quit it; My best male friends—married and unmarried. Was this creepy, icky feeling in my stomach warranted or was I being too hard on a man that was just paying me a compliment? The reactions of The Panelists were mixed, but the majority told me to “chill” and not read into it. Perhaps he wasn’t really objectifying me and just looking for sex? But as I ended my discussion with a colleague while leaving work, I warned her that he had better not get handsy.
Date No. 2: It’s on! An ‘80s rock cover band was playing locally. On our first date, Mr. T and I reminisced about our favorite ‘80s rock music and he told me how much he enjoyed bands. Sure cover bands are a bit corny (they’re supposed to be). They’re rowdy (but by the end of the week, I love some sensory overload). Since bands always start late, Mr. T said he’d meet me at the place where the band was playing.
I arrived before he did, so I checked my coat and waited. When he arrived, he paid for himself. Ok. Maybe he thought I already paid? So I paid my cover. Shake it off, sister.
He bought each of us a beer and the band came on shortly thereafter. I was very pleased when he told me how great the band was and how this was “such a good idea.” Song after song, he smiled more and laughed when songs surprised him from the past. When the band broke into a Beastie Boys montage, I leaned back and clinked our beer bottles together, as in toasting the sentiment “Awesome!” This is when Mr. T began to emerge and reveal himself like sunburn.
“If you do that again, I’ll have to kiss you.”
Self: Huh? I must have heard that wrong. Response: Give puzzled expression.
“If you lean back like that again, I’m going to kiss you.”
Self: Warning shot fired and noted. Apparently we are going down this path again.
“I told you, I take things slow. You don’t even know my birthday or middle name.” This was completely logical to me.
“When’s your birthday?” he blurted. I answered.
“What’s your middle name?”
I replied, stripping off bits of "Coy-and-Cute Mode" in favor of "Don’t-Make-Me-Get-Out-My-Can-of-Whup-Ass Mode." He looked confused for a second (my middle name isn’t common), but he quickly dismissed his confusion so as not to veer off course.
“Now that we got that out of the way…” he smiled. I swear it was a semi-creepy smile. Reminded me of Mark Harmon as Ted Bundy. Ew.
Self: Easy there, Killer. You’re missing my point. So I explained that you only get a first kiss once. When you know someone better, you feel a connection and the kiss is natural.
He shrugged, “I get it. That’s true.” His demeanor appeared to soften.
Self: Situation leading to compromised principles averted. Resume dancing and consider ways to stroke his ego without leading him on.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. T must have decided to try alternate tactical maneuvers. He tightened my dance space so I could feel him behind me. Then he put his hands around my waist—Try rockin’ out to Bon Jovi with someone cramping your dance space. Dude, “Runaway” isn’t a slow song! (Hindsight: I should have taken that song as another clue.)
“Does this make you uncomfortable?” he said in my ear (not so much a whisper, as we were listening to a band).
“Kind of, yes, it does,” I replied gingerly. Self: Don’t poke the tiger with a stick.
“Oh, it does? This makes you uncomfortable?” so he held me tighter, laughed, and then released me.
Now I’m thinking he’s just a butthead. Thankfully, Mr. T went to get another beer. About a half-hour later and in the middle of a very kickass rendition of a Heart song, someone put their hands on my shoulders and forcibly moved me over about four feet. Stumbling and startled, I turned around and tensed up preparing to shift into "Black Mamba Mode" (i.e. hold bottle firmly and thump guy on head if necessary). No, not the snake...think “Beatrix Kiddo” stunningly played by Uma Thurman in Kill Bill I & II. Makes more sense now, doesn’t it?
I’m 5-feet nothing and though I can kick a 6-feet-tall man in the head (yes, I totally can), this kitten only scratches accidentally (well, usually—but that's another story). So I’m wondering where Mr. T went just when he was called to duty! That’s when I realized that it was Mr. T that did that to me! What the heck?
Before I could even ask, he provided what he believed to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, “If I didn’t move you, I was going to have to beat the sh** out of three guys behind you.”
What? I know we’re jamming to ‘80s music, but I swear we didn’t actually go back to high school. I wouldn’t have signed up for that! Mr. T was the only person bothering me. No one else was forcing themselves on me.
Let’s clear this one up, shall we? Women are used to men watching them dance with their girl friends at night clubs. It’s no big deal. It’s a compliment as long as they don’t get aggressive or rude. That said, no one was dancing with me except Mr. T. Besides, my eyes were generally nowhere—in crowds, I pretty much get to stare at the backs of heads.
Here we are, all of us having a blast sharing music we grew up with—all of us dancing and singing horribly together in mass elation, well, except for me. And Butthead dropped his fun card on the floor about an hour ago. I had no idea what to say so I shrugged it off and gave his forearm a little squeeze in thanks of his gesture to, I guess, "defend my honor."
Naturally, one gigantically oversized man puked in a garbage can next to us before being hauled out by his friends. Thank God the band was worth the headache I was getting from all the drama. Then to my horror, the lead singer pointed at me and the two girls dancing next to me. He then proceeded to jump off the stage and dance with us while singing an entire song that I can’t recall (for obvious reasons). Ok, that was pretty fun even if he was very sweaty and dressed like someone’s pervy uncle in an Elvis wig and Liberace-rhinestone belt.
After that moment in the spotlight, two guys I went to college with reintroduced themselves to me. It was bizarre to run into them at this little Irish bar in the middle of a random Chicago suburb. This must have been it for Mr. T. His territory had been breached and it was my fault.
Frat Guy No. 1 leaned over to me and said, “Hey, I think your husband left.”
“He’s NOT my husband! What are you talking about?” I asked looking around.
Frat Guy No. 2, “He’s not your husband? He was looking at us the whole time like he wanted to beat the crap out of us!”
Self: How special.
“Yeah, I think he took off. Did he leave you here?” asked Frat Guy No. 1.
Self: Fabulous.
They go back and forth with mutual dismay over my situation. I can’t believe he ditched me, so I tried texting him, asking him where he was. Obviously, I received no response. I started scanning the crowd, feeling pretty much paranoid.
Is he watching me from a distance? Is he coming back?
I waited 15 minutes before I decided this was way too uncomfortable. I felt safe with the guys I knew from college (it’s that whole “Alumni Bond” thing or something), but the fact that some angry, jealous guy might be hiding in the crowd watching me was more than I could take.
A bouncer walked me to my car (thank God I drove myself), and I drove around for a while before actually turning in to my complex in case someone was following me. I know: Paranoid much? I made several unsuccessful attempts to further ensure my safety (tried to reach the apartment security; followed a police car flashing my lights; phoned an incoherent friend). Clearly I was on my own to handle this like a big girl.
I was feeling extremely insecure and really wishing I had never moved away from my hometown in the first place. At least there, I had a huge brother-in-law and a protective father and brother that I could call in a pinch. I told myself to buck up and stay alert. Then I ran to my building like my ass was on fire!
Self: He knows the building I live in, but he doesn’t know where I live in the building. And my building is locked.
I scurried up the back entrance and down my hallway, looking and listening with the intensity of that crazy face-petter cop I went on one date with not nearly long enough ago. (See earlier blog.)
After a long phone conversation with Mom in the middle of the night, I was able to sleep. The next day I decided to take the evening for what it was worth. First, the band was—say it again—awesome! Second, I should definitely trust my instincts. If he acts, walks, and talks like a, well, er, another word that’s one vowel off of “duck,” then he probably is one. Third, dinner dates are probably better choices for second dates than bands playing at bars. Heck, I’d even suffer the pain and humiliation of ice skating instead. Oh the horror of reliving any moonlight skate ever again...
Finally, I’m sure I don’t need to state the obvious: This is exactly why I don’t kiss on a first date! The “right guy” will respect my boundaries. He will be secure enough to know that when I’m with him, I’m with him—I choose to be with him and not with any other guy in the room. He will not objectify me. A simple, sincere, “You look nice,” is all I want to hear from a guy I hardly know. The man I want telling me I make him feel hot and bothered is the man who comes home to me every night. He’s the one that doesn’t need a shackle on his left ring finger to remind him he’s My Man. He doesn’t care if I’m wearing pigtails and sweatpants. He keeps my secrets, he “gets” my sense of humor, and even if he can curl 100 lbs. with one arm, he’s not going to strut around puffed up acting like an, ahem, another name for a rooster.
Sure, I could have kissed this guy on the first date, but I would have compromised my principals and felt skanky the next day. Even in those "movie moments" of my life, I always knew in the beginning how a relationship would end. No matter what the leading man of the night thought, when the music died and the credits rolled, I’d always know that he would have been kissing a fool.
