One

Oh, well look who it is! It’s One texting me as I write. Friends, say hello to One. One, say hello to the people. (I feel bad for the poor innocents involved in this exercise, the men who sit eagerly across the table and pour a little too much of their hearts out into my ears and their perspiring cups of water.)

As you were all witness to, the rush to find a date for the first week was a bit frantic. A few spastic emails to potential suitors, and I had myself a catch. Most of them either didn’t respond or outright rejected me. Not permanently, but in an “I’m not sure what my schedule is looking like for this weekend” kind of way. Um, excuse me? A girl is asking you out. Unless you have unchangeable other plans, you say yes. You always say yes!

I find that this is a common trend among online daters, and I’m not here to judge because, before this exercise in consistent dating, I was prone to it myself. It’s comfortable to hide behind the guise of lengthy email exchanges, only sharing your best pictures and a wittily written profile. What am I like when I’m angry, you ask? What is this word, “angry?” Do mean when someone says something that is not absolutely pleasant and butterflies fly from my ears and bubbles emit from my fingertips?

And such is the world of online dating. But I dropped the “getting together” bomb early on in my exchanges with One, considering we made a connection late in the week, and I was desperate to not fail. And then, as we all remember, he ruined the excitement of his acceptance by asking me the stupid question, “Have you ever dated a brotha?” Yes, One is one and the same.

I should preface this with a little rant about how much I despise racial profiling in dating. I think it is one of the few last accepted forms of racism. White women who only date black men, white men who only date Asian girls, black men who only date white girls, and the list goes on. Not recently, but unfortunately not long enough ago, I received a communication via the online dating world from a black man detailing how he only dated short, brunette, white girls. Conveniently, I fit into that category. But here are my issues:

1. Why are you judging me by my looks right from the start? How will I ever know if you chose to contact me because of my smart profile or because of the genes my German ancestors passed to me, blessing me with brown hair?
2. Why is it okay for you to say you only date white girls when, to hear a white man say he would never date a black girl would unquestionably send most people, most likely including you, over the edge? You, sir, are JUST as racist as that white man, and just as much of an asshole.

Stepping off of my soapbox, you can see why I was turned off when One asked me if I had ever dated a brotha before. No, I should have said, but my dog is black and male and I sleep with him every night. Does that count?

Had it not been for this blog and the lack of options, I would have ended communication at that, but I stuck it out. I drove to his town, I sat straight-backed on the bench outside of the restaurant where we were supposed to meet, and I waited. He walked up mere seconds later, in well-fitting jeans, broad shoulders, and a Northface jacket. The same jacket, in fact, that I own (albeit the male version in the more masculine color of burnt orange). It’s a warm jacket, it’s a practical jacket, it’s an undeniably yuppie jacket, and I decided then and there to give him a real shot.

The host walked us to a table far in the back. It was Sunday and each member of the wait staff was dressed in their favorite football team’s jersey. The host was wearing a Steelers jersey. I don’t remember the player’s name on the back. It was a long walk to the back of the restaurant, down an empty section with endless table options.

Once we were seated we must have talked for an hour before we ordered our food. The poor waiter in his Eagles’ jersey continued to hopefully round the corner, asking us if we were ready to order, but neither of us had even opened the menus.

To be honest, I have absolutely no recollection of what we discussed in that time. I know that I asked most of the questions, which was a little worrisome, but I am understanding of the fact that some people get nervous. I definitely remember mentioning a number of critical details about myself, so he must have participated in some way. He told me about his siblings, about his family, and thought it was adorable that I was the baby of my family.

The details of the conversation aren’t really important, are they? What’s more important is that it all flowed easily, and that he was confident and eloquent and cool. (I can’t count the number of painfully uncomfortable dorks I’ve met online, truth be told.) And then, out of the blue, he apologized for asking me if I had ever dated a “brotha.”

“I’m sorry I was so forward in asking about whether or not you had dated a black man," he said, staring at his hands.

“Oh,” I said, not wanting to say that it was okay, because it wasn’t. He continued:

“I guess I just get a little nervous about those things.”

“What things?” I was intrigued by where this was going.

“It’s just that some girls… well… I worry… I don’t want to be your experiment,” he finally got out.

I think this, along with the yuppie jacket and the hour of seamless conversation, was what tipped me to his good side.

What an important lesson for me to learn in this process: not everything can be communicated online, and what is communicated is not always done so effectively. Take One as an example: if it weren’t for this blog and this experiment, I would have passed up a perfectly good first date.

At one point a small child wandered into our section of the restaurant, wielding a roll of silverware like a weapon. I looked back in search of a parent or guardian, and, in the process of turning my head, caught One looking at the child in a way that I imagine I look at children: in adoring awe. I have never seen a man look at a child that way, and I was too transfixed with the expression on his face to engage in any usual swooning over the adorable child myself. I watched him watching the child and thought, shocked, “This one has potential.”

The brief lunch, for which I had pre-planned an excuse to escape (necessary for any first date, in my opinion), turned into a three-hour meal. I have never had a longer lunch, even sitting in the outdoor cafés in Paris, slowly eating thin slices of salmon drizzled with oil, and when I found a break in the conversation to tell him that I should really be getting home (because, after all, I did have to “help my mom go through the boxes in her garage”), he paid the check, waving away my offer to split it.

Let me pause to discuss my stance on the issue of the check.

There is much controversy over this issue, but the way I play it is this: I’m an independent and forward-thinking female. I will gladly show that, and my general tendency towards courtesy, by offering to pay for half. I always extend the obligatory, “Do you want to split that?” offer, and, most times (actually all times that I can remember, a fact that stuns my mother who last went on a date in the 1970’s) they take me up on it. But let me be clear: this is, without a doubt, a test. Yes, I am independent. Yes, I am forward thinking. But I also feel slightly awkward about kissing on a first date (it’s weird if you really think about it!). And I appreciate the door being opened for me. And, while none of this is necessary, it shows consideration. I like a man with strong forearms, and I like a man who can pay the check confidently and without question. I might be a feminist, but I am a woman, and, biologically, I am programmed to be attracted to men who can take care of me. I might not always need it. I might resist it steadfastly in my “stubbornly independent” way, as my father dubs it. But I appreciate it. And I, without second thought, give major bonus points to those men who confidently show their chivalry.

Can we move on?

I can’t really explain what happened when he walked me to my car, other than to say that it is was the same unbearably ridiculous behavior I displayed last night when he called and I giddily paced the floor of my bedroom while talking loudly and laughing like an asshole. When he walked me to my car, I stalled. I opened the car door. I insisted he smell my car (he remarked on the new car scent, it wasn’t entirely unprovoked), and I told him to take care of his… jacket? Yes, my dears, I was a bumbling loser, doing and saying anything to not have him leave, to not have the date be over just yet. He stayed by the open car door, thankfully undeterred by my nonsense. He pulled me into a strong hug that lasted long enough to make me giggle. Yes, for fuck’s sake, I giggled. He stepped away and then leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.

More drivel poured from my mouth, and he finally looked down at his feet and back at me and asked, “Would you mind if I kissed you? You know, on the lips?” I smiled warily down at my feet and he clarified, “Just a little one.” I nodded my consent. He leaned in and kissed me quickly on the lips as if we were young children experimenting with something we had seen on television.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My lips must taste all…” I struggled for the word “… medicinal.” I had applied Carmex to my lips shortly before leaving the restaurant.

At the same time he apologized for something having to do with his lips and our apologies overlapped in the afternoon sun.

“It’s ok,” he said. “I like it.”

We smiled, reluctantly said goodbye, and went our separate ways. On the way out of the parking lot I got lost, and he passed me, beeped, and pointed for me to follow him.

It was adorable. All of it was, really.

Of course there is now the predicament of what to do with an adorable man who just happened to be the first in, what was supposed to be, a long string of fifty-two first dates. I struggled with this for the entire drive home, into the night, and through yesterday: I’m not supposed to like these men! I’m supposed to play them like fools and leave a pile of pathetic hearts and hilarious first date anecdotes in my wake! Was I even allowed to go on a second date with this guy? Was that part of the exercise? I took a decent amount of time thinking about the point of this exercise, and then I remembered why I became attached to the idea in the first place: I am so easily discouraged by bad dates. More than one or two negative experiences and I downspin into a subscription canceling tirade that can last months, only to come out the other side lonely and wishing I had just stuck with it a little longer. I reread the article from O Magazine that I initially posted and took comfort in the detail that sometimes her one coffee date turned into six months. I don’t anticipate finding a long-term relationship from this exercise, but if one date has the potential to turn into two, I certainly am not stubborn enough in my desire for decent blog fodder to turn away from the possibility. As Olive declared in the last lines of the book,

What young people didn’t know, she thought, lying down beside this man, his hand on her shoulder, her arm; oh, what young people did not know. They did not know that lumpy, aged, and wrinkled bodies were as needy as their own young, firm ones, that love was not to be tossed away carelessly, as if it were a tart on a platter with others that got passed around again. No, if love was available, one chose it, or didn’t choose it. And if her platter had been full with the goodness of Henry [her husband] and she had found it burdensome, had flicked it off crumbs at a time, it was because she had not known what one should know: that day after day was unconsciously squandered.

I am still in contact with other men online, and I am still actively pursuing first dates with them, but, in the meantime, One just may turn into Two. We already have plans for this weekend.