Chapter Two; Yes. I Want to See You Naked

“What are you doing? Why am I on speaker?” Naomi’s voice booms all over my bathroom walls.

“Well, honestly? You are not going to believe this, but I am getting ready to go on a date right now. So you’re on speaker, sista,” I explain as I brush some powder on my mug and try to determine how gussied up I want to get for some guy who seems great but could be a big fat tool.

“A date? What? With who?” she demands as only a best friend can.

“With some guy who wrote to me on Facebook who knows Christiana. His name is Nick. He seems normal. I figure I should go.”

I’ve known Naomi since college. We were both English majors and actually ended up teaching together at a private Catholic school a few years later. That woman is bat shit crazy hilarious. She’s the most down to earth woman I know and simultaneously the most daring when it comes to creative solutions for life. Four years ago she wanted breast implants but couldn’t afford them. She suggested her (then, now ex) husband, Mr. handy man of the universe, do a trade with the plastic surgeon.

So Naomi got boobs.

And the doctor? Well. He got drain tile.

I don’t even know what drain tile is. Something about water levels and a basement.

It doesn’t matter.

Because everyone won.

Well, except Naomi’s ex-husband. I guess he ended up more high and dry than the surgeon in the end. (Divorce kind of hinders access to the rack.)

Naomi ‘s voice is soon barking at me from the bathroom counter again where my blackberry is perched, “What is with this “should go” crapola? Why do you say should? I thought you were taking a break from dating little miss “I don’t need a boyfriend.”

She’s right. I did just say that. I believe it was yesterday.

“Well, if I am going to start a dating blog. I figure I probably should be dating,” I state, clearly justifying my ambiguity on this topic.

“Field research. Got it,” she deadpans.

I love Naomi.

She interrogates me for the next ten minutes while I primp. I remember muttering something about biceps and books.

Finally ready, I tell Naomi goodbye. I’ll see her in exactly one hour for dinner. Because before that.

I have to get this date out of the way.

Because oh yes, I have agreed to meet Nick for precisely ONE hour. After all, this is essentially a blind date. I’ve never heard his voice. Seen his face. We set this whole rendezvous up via email. And even though he looks good on paper (screen?) this is now the part where I find out if he’s intriguing or irritating. And that takes all of ten seconds, lets get real, people. So basically, I’ve agreed to sacrifice 59 minutes and 50 seconds of my life that I may never get back again if this situation turns out to be more uncomfortable than a wool sweater in July.

A year ago I wouldn’t have been such a crab ass on the topic of blind dates. I would have wistfully proclaimed hopeful exclamations along the lines of, “I’ll never know if I don’t take a chance.”

I must have been watching a lot Oprah back then.

But since then I’ve been around the blind date block. I’ve done Match.com and I’ve met my cousin’s neighbor’s sister’s co-worker at the Green Mill for lunch. You try spending an hour with someone who snorts when he laughs or brags about his W2 in an obvious effort to compensate for anatomical shortcomings or calls his ex-wife a bitch ten times before you’ve finished your salad and then you tell me how fun a blind date can be.

I’d rather get a bikini wax, thank you very much.

When I arrive at the restaurant we agreed to meet at he is waiting for me just inside the doorway, the personification of the person I’d only seen pictures of prior to this moment.

“Hi Audra, I’m Nick,” he smiles.

I smile back and think to myself, “He’s really cute but why am I doing this again?

Please don’t have an annoying laugh . . . please don’t have an annoying laugh. . .

We settle into a table in the bar and I soon find myself engaging in a dialogue that flows shockingly easy. Nick asks me open ended questions, and yakker that I am, I find myself just talking effortlessly away. Not that talking is ever an effort for me, but I am usually more cognizant of conversational flow when meeting new people. In other words, I try to be the one asking all the questions.

I talk. He smiles. I talk some more. He laughs. And it’s not remotely annoying. His whole face is a light. He has one of those smiles that takes over his entire face.

And I like it.

I like it a lot.

I realize halfway in that I forgot to ask myself the single most important question you can ask yourself when meeting someone new in a dating situation.

Do I ever want to see this guy naked?

Oh, put your eyebrows down. I’m the queen of conservative but chemistry is a must. There has to be a spark. There are a lot of people whose company I enjoy who I never want to see naked.

For example. My butcher. My baker. My candlestick maker.

Exactly.

So I subtly let my eyes roam from his face, to his shoulders to his . . . oh, there are the biceps.

The verdict is in.

Hell. Yes.

Is it hot in here? Oh my.

The hour is a blur of mutual inquiries, comfortable laughter and some surprising candor on both our parts. We’re the same age and although we haven’t led parallel lives, we’ve both lived and I find myself learning some pretty interesting stuff about this man. And doing some honest sharing of my own. Before long the time has vanished and it is time to say good night.

As we part ways in the parking lot, I actually surprise myself and give him a hug, thank him for the drink and tell him I really enjoyed meeting him.

And you know what’s crazy?

I actually mean that. Me. Queen of pessimism. I mean it.

Fifteen minutes later I have my daughter in tow and I am standing in Naomi’s kitchen giving her the full report, which is extremely positive.

“Wow. I am shocked. I thought you were so down with the no dating thing for a while,” she comments as she dishes up chicken and Rice-a-Roni for us and our kiddos.

I am sitting on a stool at her kitchen counter just smiling like an idiot and I don’t say anything.

She pauses, looks up, and smirks. “Wow! He’s left YOU speechless? Now that is a feat in and of itself.”

Over dinner I tell her all about the date. And Naomi, who has seen me write off 90% of the guys who have ever shown an interest in me, and who has had a front row seat to all my dating debacles articulates her awe and shock that someone has caught my attention so quickly.

In the middle of our estrogen-charged over analyzing, my blackberry does its little “Some loves you, you have a text,” brief ding of a ring tone.

I look.

I smile.

As for Naomi? Yeah. She gasps.

What a drama queen.

“Is it him? It’s him. Holy crap it is him! Already? What does it say, what does it say?” she demands as she jumps out of her seat, abandoning her chicken and rice, and attempts to take my blackberry hostage.

I jerk the screen away and coyly reveal, “Just that he had a nice time,” as I start to text back.

“Stop! Stop! What are you doing? Don’t reply!” she barks.

“What? Why not?”

“Becuuuuuuuuuuuz,” she admits, “I want to help.”

We are soon giggling like two school girls in a little texting repertoire with Nick.

“Oooh, say this,” Naomi instructs, and so on and so forth. He replies. I respond. He responds. I reply. All the while, Naomi coaches and mentors and we collapse in laughter enjoying this unexpected attention from this incredibly fascinating guy.
It ends with his asking, and my agreeing, to see me again.

On Saturday.

“He likes you,” Naomi observes and smiles. “And he seems great,” she adds.

“I like him too,” I confess, “Well, the little bit I know I like.” I figure I can’t get carried away here. Good gawd, I’ve known him all of one hour.

“And,” she adds, “looks like you just got some blog material.”

I just smile.

And then. I impatiently wait.

For Saturday to arrive.

Because it is almost incomprehensible what your heart can learn before your head.

In exactly. 59 minutes. And 50 seconds.
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Thanks for reading! Be sure to come back to Dating Land on Thursday for Chapter Three; CP (Charming Prince) on a Harley

Chapter One; Jumping into Dating Land

Hesitation.

Sometimes we just stop. We don’t know why. Our soul whispers to us to hit the pause button. Suspended momentarily by an invisible guiding force that leans in and says, wait a minute, I want you to notice something.

Why does that happen to us? But more importantly:

Should we listen when it does?

Just over a month ago I was walking out my front door when life did just that. The summer sun was shining so I brightly I could barely make out the name on the Facebook friend request on my blackberry screen.

I squint. Some guy named Nick. Hmmm. Doesn’t ring a bell.

Sigh. Probably just some creep trolling for chicks on Facebook.

I move to highlight and click the “Ignore” option like I usually do in these virtual hitting on situations but for some reason, this time, I stopped.

Facebook friend requests from strange men is a pretty common experience for single women without three eyeballs. And it is one of my biggest pet peeves. My mode of operation when it happens is to grunt, roll my eyes, and press delete. Take that you little Facebook freak job. But for some unexplainable Twilight Zone reason this time the universe prompted me to react otherwise. And just leave it there.

So I did.

And then? I forgot all about it. For approximately four days.

When I finally go online to check Facebook a few days later I think to myself, “Oh yeah, that stranger is still rotting out here in cyber social land.” I click on the request and read the note he’d sent that I hadn’t been able to view initially on my abbreviated blackberry version of Facebook. Something about he thought I looked like a fun person so hence the friend the request.

Whatever.

(Wow. Two years in Singledom and I'm already this jaded? Maybe, just maybe, he's . . . do I dare dream it . . . normal?)

So right there and then, I have a rare but profound attack of . . .you got it: optimism. Gasp. I don’t click ignore. Instead I hit the mental pause button and reconsider. You see, the mutual real life friend that Nick and I share (how he found me in this cyber labrynth of pokes and status updates in the first place) happens to be one of my most favorite souls on this planet. If she knows him, then it is probably not likely that he has a meth lab in his basement.

So I do something I’ve never done.

I click “Accept” and officially become Facebook friends with a potentially normal not likely druggie weirdo.

And then?

Oh you know it.

I promptly turn into a super stalker of the universe and creep on all of his information and pictures. Oooh, it’s kind of exhilarating. Doodly doo. Here I go. Who is this dude?

I can’t wait to find out.

And so, what’s the first thing my creeping blue eyes spy? My. My. Oh my.

Big.

Bulging.

Biceps.

Yeah. Now who’s the shallow one? Well, if I were a body of water right now I’d be a about a one inch muddle puddle. Make that a half inch. Holy crap is this guy hot.

After I wipe all the drool off my chin, I continue with the investigation and discover a lot of other very intriguing information about Mr. Hot Stuff, ah hem, I mean, Mr. Facebook.

First off, his personal information lists some of his favorite books, and they are titles and authors that I like too. On top of that intriguing coinky dink I am impressed to find that his pictures are not the standard partying shots that so many of us post on Facebook. (What? Who brings a camera to church? Duh.) Instead I discover lots of great visual glimpses into his job and friendships. Yeah, about that job. It's a hot job. Many women fantasize about dating men in this line of work, so I’ve heard. I have never personally daydreamed about red trucks and breaking down a door with an axe, but a few more pics in and I confess I was in a, oh you got it, a firefighter fantasizing frenzy.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I read some more and drool so much more that I have to go to my kitchen and get paper towels. Okay, not really, but it would be funny if I had.

But what I honestly do is pause. Again.

Brawn and brains? Character and depth?

This is unexpected.

I don’t know who emailed who first. Okay. That's a lie. I totally did. I thought I would introduce myself to that hot body, I mean, interesting man.

We start a little electronic dialogue and before long he asks me to meet him for a drink. And suddenly, when faced with the prospect of moving from internet ogling to that very scary place that can be Dating Land, my enthusiasm wanes. I’d just ended a short relationship with someone who wasn’t a match for me and I was just sick of the whole dating garbage. I was feeling strong and independent.

Do I really want to start this crap up again?

Because yes. Dating is crap. It’s absolute crap. If it doesn’t work out it culminates in either my having to kick someone to the curb or my being the one taking up unexpected residency on said curb. And both scenarios suck ass. The latter being the worse outcome because who wants a big old heap of rejection for breakfast with a side of endless sobbing? Exactly. I’d prefer a thick slice of French toast, thank you very much.

With bacon.

But for some reason I decide to just jump, ignore any and all hesitation.

And say yes. Yes, Mr. Facebook Fire Fighter who reads books and probably is not a meth addict with the hot job who incidentally has great, ok phenomenal, arms. I will meet you for a drink.

And so it begins.

A very.

Very.

Unexpected adventure in pausing and then jumping. Right back into the uncertain waters.

Of Dating Land.
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A big thank you to Kevin Tobosa for taking my publicity photo for my new blog! You are an extremely talented artist, I am honored.