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.
**************

Thanks for reading! Be sure to come back to Dating Land on Thursday for Chapter Three; CP (Charming Prince) on a Harley