for once, I'm not sorry

Recently I had a first date. My first first date in quite awhile.

How the date happened in the first place is uninteresting. He came recommended from a questionable source, but it would have seemed we had some things in common. And it was just a drink, anyway, so I accepted, having only seen a picture of him.

The second I saw him I realized that picture must have been the best he’s ever taken. Because in the picture, he looked masculine, mature, and handsome. And most crucially, happy and at ease. But in person he looked like…a troubled gamer, maybe? Very different vibes than were indicated in the picture. Not bad looking, but definitely not at ease. Also, he smelled vaguely like a musty closet of old shoes.

I tried to enjoy myself, but nothing about our dynamic excited me or engaged my attention except that he made excellent eye contact. I tried obliquely to convey that I didn’t think we were a match. I even brought up astrology, which would send many men running. But he played along.

“If I’m a Taurus and you’re an Aquarius, does that mean we’re a good match?”

“No, it means we’re likely to irritate each other. You’re grounded and planned and sensual. I am flighty and spontaneous and energetic.”

He absorbed this news but gave no indication he accepted the implications.

Earlier this week I posted on my Instagram, @thetenderhuman, about lessons I gained from writing my book that I may never have learned otherwise. One of them was the power of speaking my mind. Another was the efficiency of direct communication.

So after talking about our respective careers, the relatable terror of being laid off, and him stating fervently that it’s impossible to make money doing something you love, I said, “Yeah, I get the sense there’s not much that you love about your life. Did you know you haven’t smiled a single time since we’ve been sitting here?”

“I haven’t?”

“No. Does that surprise you?”

“I mean, no. I just got laid off three weeks ago.”

There was another pause, in which I, once again, hoped he was assimilating the obvious facts. I hoped the awkward silence would compel him away from me. It didn’t.

Finally, I asked, “What do you want to happen right now?”

“I’d like the check.”

“How about if I get the drinks and you can leave now?”

He seemed stunned, then mad, then—finally—accepting. He left in such a hurry he had to reach back to grab his coat from the back of his chair. I watched the door close behind him and breathed a massive sigh of victory. Not over him, but over my former ways.

Incels would say that I ruined his night. And that’s how I might have seen things several years ago, too. I wouldn’t have said anything about our incompatibility and I would have gone along with the date and kept trying, contorting and abandoning myself to suit him. I hate to say it but, once upon a time—if I’d gotten drunk enough—I might even have gone home with him, smell be damned.

I see things differently now.

He chose to misrepresent himself. He’s not at a point in his life where he can bring his A-game, whatever that might look like. And he was so invested in fucking that when I pointed out we were not compatible but might relate as friends, he was unable to make that pivot or state simply that’s not what he was looking for.

He very well might have ruined my night, if I weren’t so capable of making my own good time.

I had noticed a bit earlier there was a single guy across the bar from us having dinner alone. A couple had come in and were seated next to him, and the two men seemed to be hitting it off in conversation, leaving the woman sort of staring into space. So after my date left, I carried my drink over and asked to join her/them. We connected about Seattle and the holidays and the neighborhood. When they moved to a larger table because more of their friends had arrived, they invited me to join.

And that’s how my night ended—finishing my drink with a group of unmarried, pre-kids Millennials, who reminded me of a time in my life when I used to mob around the city with my crew, anticipating the night ahead and little beyond that. Before I had any idea how life was going to take shape. Before I got married, much less divorced. Before I had an inkling I’d ever publish a book. Before I had any idea what it would be like to be in my mid-forties, happier and more grounded than ever…and single AF.