Nonverbals

When I go out on dates I can immediately tell whether or not I’m interested (usually I’m not, it seems). I try to give subtle clues that, while I’m not a bitch and will thus still have a pleasant time with you, I would really prefer if we kept with platonic; my dates never, never notice. Why are nonverbals so difficult for some people? I understand that some are too subtle and won’t be picked up on unless one is really looking for them. But the majority of nonverbals are universal and tend to be obvious. My friends always know what I’m thinking because my facial expressions betray me. I’m not subtle. When it comes to dates, however, they seem incapable of picking up on anything.

My first bad date story goes a little something like this:

I got coerced into agreeing to go out on a night I was planning on simply staying in and relaxing. It was suggested that we go see “American Gangster” and as I have wanted to see this film I found it hard to resist. I meet Jake down in the city and he decides we should first go to dinner. This was his first bad choice. I am in no way, shape, or form interested in him. He is out of shape, has a south Philly accent, and just clearly lacks what I would call, class. He takes me to some little chain place (hence I say this was a bad choice. I am a snob. I warn people of this. They tend not to heed my warning and thus pay for it later). I decide on a salad, as does he (why do men do this?) and I attempt to make small talk. He whips out his Blackberry and starts checking the weather over and over. He then looks up and says, “Wow. You have really good posture. Really good posture.” This is a point he then proceeds to fixate on for the rest of dinner.

Thankfully, dinner finally ends. He decides it would fun to bring beer to the movie. I remind him that both of us will need to drive later. “That’s ok,” he says, “I’m still good to drive after a few beers.” I tell him I’m not much of a beer drinker and those that I do drink tend to be Guinness or ones from microbreweries (again, I’m a snob). He buys Budweiser. We proceed to the theater and are there a bit early. We play some Pac Man (or actually, he plays while I stand, holding my Guinness bag full of Budweiser, watching some dude I have no interest in being there with, play Pac Man), and then go to just sit in the theater. We’re the only two in there at first and I begin my usual berating of the choice of music. He joins in and I’m glad because I feel less like an asshole. Then he grabs me knee (my legs were crossed and I was turned slightly away from him) to try to “tickle” me. I just glare at him. “Not ticklish,” he asks? I tell him that I am, in fact, not ticklish unless, for some reason, the mood strikes me. Instead of taking that as “stop trying,” he decides I’m telling him to not only continue to grab at my knee but to also grab at other areas of my body. He now starts squeezing my upper-mid thigh (too high for comfort), then my side, then my neck. “Really not ticklish,” he repeats. I once again tell him no and move even further away. He grabs my hand and starts playing with my palm. My hand is limp; I’m staring at the screen, willing the movie to start.

He finally gives up on whatever it was he was trying to do to my palm and starts babbling about how he wishes we had seats in the back row. I ask why and he responds, “Well, I guess it would be easier if you had on a skirt.” A look of shock and disgust crosses my face as I raise my eyebrows and say that my seat is perfect. I am then offered a beer, which I refuse, once again saying that I have to drive. “Are you really that much of a lightweight,” he asks? I say, “I’m little. I can handle my liquor but I’d rather not chance it.” He looks me up and down and then says, “You’re not that thin.” Excuse me? I wear a size 0, 2 on a bad day. Sure I’m not a stick, I have muscle because I run and, oh right, eat, but I am thin. F*cking a**hole. Now he begins to repeat that he wishes the lights would dim. I ignore most of this. The lights finally do dim and he says, “Ok, here we go,” as he reaches behind my neck and starts to move in for the kiss. I have just enough time to put my hand up and say thanks, but not happening, sorry.

He moves away and starts texting on his Blackberry. I thoroughly enjoy the movie (it really was awesome…those types of movies just, mmm, so sexy), and am somewhat sad when it’s over. We walk out to his car. He peels out like a maniac, drives like a complete a**hole, and barely slows down to let me out at my car. What a gentleman.

My second bad date was completely unexpected. I had been talking with this guy for a couple of weeks and he was fine over the phone, maybe a little too eager, but whatever. We meet in Old City on Saturday for some drinks. He is unfamiliar with Philly (Jersey boy, should have been a clue) and thus calls me 4 times to figure out where he's going. I urge him to try to find street parking or, if that is truly impossible, go to the Bourse garage on 4th and Ranstead. I tell him I’ll call when I get into the city and see where I should meet him.

I get down to Old City and miraculously find free on street parking on 2nd right after Walnut (around the Sheraton at Society Hill). I’m pumped; this is going well so far! I give him a call and tell him to meet me on the corner of 2nd and Chestnut. I see him walking up and immediately know that this isn’t happening. I was wearing 2.5” heels, short heels in my book, and I was as tall, if not a smidge taller, than he. Oh well, I figured we seem to be able to talk, so it should still be a pretty decent evening. I suggest we try Eulogy for our first bar. We walk in and, of course, it’s packed. I checked out the upstairs bar but it, too, was packed. So we wander around, popping in and out of bars, each one getting rejected by him because they are too crowded. We end up at Rotten Ralph’s solely because there are seats.

I order a vodka tonic and he gets a vodka cran. I slowly sip mine, enjoying the smooth taste of Grey Goose. I tend to leave my lime to the side when I drink a good vodka tonic. If I simply get the house vodka then the lime is necessary; otherwise I like to actually taste my liquor…I like vodka. He squeezes my lime into my drink, telling me I don’t know how to drink a vodka tonic. I explain I purposely left the lime off and, thank you, that’s the way I like it. I look over and he has completely downed his drink already. I’m a bit taken aback and make some sort of comment on it, hopefully in a nonjudgmental manner (fat chance). He laughs and says he can handle his liquor.

The conversation starts out well enough, talking about work, a little bit of philosophy, interests, etc. Then he asks me if I’m dating anyone else. I tell him, truthfully, that there is someone I’ve been seeing but that he and I are not serious and I decided to get back out into the world of dating. He seems to accept this answer, asks how we met, and then asks if we still sleep together. I was a bit surprised with the question, but answered honestly. “Tell me about it,” he implores. Wha?! I refuse and he gets annoyed. “Come on! Is it good? Just tell me a little something. Anything. What was the first time like?” This line of questioning continues regardless of my refusal. “I’m a bit of a voyeurist,” he informs me. Too bad! I need not explain my intimate life to some random guy who is far too interested in it.

This was when I started to get uncomfortable but decided to see if I could just change the subject. I did and we continued to just talk and drink. I had a big glass of water, which I also took my time with; he had four more vodka crans. After spending over two hours with him I said that it was time for me to go. “Can I walk you to your car,” he asked? I agreed and we set out. I was walking on his left with trees and parking meters on my left. He was rubbed up against my right. I stepped a little further left; he followed suit. Eventually I was taking great pains to not walk right into the trees and parking meters wishing he would just give me a little room!

“So I’ll sit in your car and we’ll talk for a bit,” he says as we’re about two blocks from what I thought would be my freedom.

“Talk? About what? Have you something more that you’ve not had the opportunity to say while we’ve been talking for the past two and half hours?” I think this a rather reasonable question.

“I just want to…talk,” he says, giving me nothing.

“I don’t understand.” I really didn’t.

“Well, I wanted to give you a kiss, but I didn’t want to have to tell you. Now I feel like an a**hole.”

“Don’t feel like an a**hole. That’s sweet, but really not nec…” He cuts me off.

“I’ll just sit in your car for a bit, we’ll talk.” I’m starting to get annoyed at this point. Get it through your head, buddy, I’m not looking forward to this.

“You’ve effectively just invited yourself into my car,” I say, pointing out what I think is rude.

“What do you mean?” Now it’s his turn to be confused. We get to my car and I unlock the doors and open the driver’s side. I turn to say goodnight but he’s not there. I look over to my right and he’s gotten in my passenger seat. Mother***ker! I slide in, pull out iPod and plug it in, put my phone within easy reach, and turn to him.

“Can you put on the heat? It’s freezing,” he asks. I start the engine and turn on the heat. I look over and ask him what he feels he has left to say. He moves in for the kill and I turn my cheek. Apparently to him this is an invitation to make out with my neck. I pry him off my neck and just looked at him.

“Hu…I guess we just ‘don’t have a connection,’” he huffily remarks before proceeding to pull out his Blackberry and start texting (what is with this? This is not socially acceptable! It is rude!). “Um, drive me to my car?” This is not really a question but more of a demand. I apologized for having possibly misled led him and he cut me off saying, “Could you drive me to my car? It’s cold out.”

“Well, um, where are you parked?” I ask, a bit confused.

“Front, a little past Chestnut,” he says. I roll my eyes. I’m on 2nd. If you know Philly, you know it is a grid of one-way streets. I would have to loop around and then sit in Saturday night Old City gridlock to get there. It is also in the opposite direction from where I need to be going.

“It would probably be faster if you walked, actually. I’d have to circle ‘round and sit at the lights, etc.,” I explain.

“It’s cold.” Well, yeah, but that still doesn’t mean you can invite yourself into my car and then demand I drive you places. I acquiesced. When I got back to, where else, 2nd and Chestnut he says (speaking for the first time since I pried him off my neck), “I’m getting out here.”

I was now stuck in a gridlock going the wrong direction. I was fuming. I picked up my phone and called my friend, Mo, and told her I was coming over. I found my way out of the city and over to her apartment. B, Mo and I then went down to the Greeks, the bar below their apartment, and proceeded to have an amazing time. We recounted stories of our “firsts” (kisses, dates, drinks, etc) and reminisced about how we all met. It was a blast.

Dating is a wretched beast. Seemingly normal people suddenly turn into raging a**holes; signals are misinterpreted at every turn; escapes are made difficult. Thank god, then, for friends. Who else so willingly (and gleefully) listens to our horror stories and triumphs? Who else will happily meet you at midnight to help you forget that terrible evening you just had? In the world of dating, I’d argue, friends are what keep us sane.