If you tell me I’m beautiful, I may walk away still feeling invisible.
So, I met this guy last night…
And before I continue, please know this isn’t the love story you think it is — however, this story is important for my character development, so tune in.
As we’re walking through the crowded spaces of the Garden — my body, like a shadow, displaying itself across a multitude of colorful, uninterested faces — I tell myself I’m not here for attention. Just enjoy yourself! Enjoy your friend. These are my thoughts, as we continue to cascade through a sea of strangers to the corner of the bar that beams like a safe house.
Now, we’re sitting, scrunched together, at the bartop — Me and my best friend, T. The game is blaring loudly over our heads as we sip our drinks and devour the nachos that were way too good to be free. Our environment is in a frenzy. Bus boys bustling, bartenders mixing to perfection, and the walls vibrating with the anticipation of the game that’s seconds away from the 1st quarter.
“I just want to experience someone else!” I say with exasperation. “I’m tired of him being the last guy I’ve interacted with.”
These are the last words I said before taking matters into my own hands. I’m all about men being the ones to approach, and honestly, shooting my shot in a public forum is — in my opinion — baptism by fire. It either goes really great or just really terribly wrong and I’ve never been the type to risk finding out. But, last night, I felt desperate enough to take a chance.
“Who are you rooting for?” I ask the guy leaning over the bartop next to me. His eyes once fixated on the flatscreen hovering in front of us, are now taking in every molecule of my being.
“The Ravens,” he responds quickly. “Who are you rooting for?”
I wanted to say I’m rooting for myself, but instead, I tell him I always fan girl for the underdog.
“Great, looks like we’re betting on the same team!” he exclaims.
This is where I thought the conversation would end, but it didn’t. I surprised myself by being willing to expose my name to this stranger. I’m usually always cautious, and never friendly. (It’s the only way I know how to protect my heart.)
“Where are you from, because I know you’re not from Texas.”
“What gave it away?” he asks. I can see he’s intrigued by how sure I am of myself.
“Because,” I say, “I can just tell. You’re not a Dallas native.”
Of course, I was right. What I didn’t expect was for our conversation to develop into more than polite small talk. I’m not big on small talk but I’m learning. (He asks me about myself and I stay as vague as I can muster. I have this problem where I give too much too soon and this guy didn’t need to know all that.) I find out that he’s a lover of adventure. He does all he can to challenge the mind and tire his body. I listen half-heartedly as he tells me about the time he swam across rafty waters, and how he biked 112 miles straight, then climbed uphill to the top of some mountain all in the name of self-discovery. I can’t say I cared. Not even when he raved about how attracted he was to me.
“You’re really fit. Do you work out often?”
“How can you tell? I’m literally fully clothed,” I respond. I had on mom jeans, a turtle neck, and a crewneck on top.
“Don’t make me admit that I’ve been checking you out since you got here,” he sheepishly replies.
I did, in fact, make him admit it. I stare blankly at him as he showers me with pleasant words and endless promises. I bat my eyes on cue and remember to smile. But in the pit of my soul, I feel absolutely nothing. How do people do this all the time? At that moment I’m painfully aware of how monogamous I’ve always pledged myself to be. Nothing in me wants to give myself to a stranger who I don’t see any potential of forever with. I’m realizing things about myself that I didn’t take into consideration before catapulting myself into this experience.
I’m realizing that I’m not ready for this.
I’m realizing when he tells me I’m beautiful, there’s still something missing.
It’s not because I don’t think he’s worthy of my time. I just don’t know how to not give all of me. I mean literally 10 minutes into us talking I’m already challenging this man to be better. At some point in our conversation, he tells me he has this idea for a thriller novel that he wants to write and pitch for publication. Me being a writer, of course, I say do it. He says he wants to write it within the next ten years and I bargain him down to three and a half.
You never know which thing you do that will change your life,” I say.
He agrees, and we shake on it.
Guy at the Garden (that’s what we’ll call him) isn’t a bad-looking dude. 6ft. Very fit. Shortish, cropped, brunette hair. His eyes, a dazzling green that I know would be mesmerizing to someone else…his whiteness was a little cringe, but he’s a goofball and I like that. He tips really well and says all the right things. He offers me the menu like it has the desires of my heart intertwined with each dish this restaurant has to offer: buffalo boneless wings with a side of an everlasting connection —
I just don’t get it. Was this the male attention I feel I so desperately need to move on from my ex? Why don’t I feel any better…
At a certain point, I start to get annoyed. Why do men do this? Why do they love the chase more than the treasure they get to keep once it’s theirs? I’m hearing this man rave over me and all I can think about is next week when he’ll have no recollection of his obsession over me.
So, I tell him the truth. I tell him our moment in time is one of a kind, but it's fleeting. (Obviously, in a less poetic way, but you get the point.)
“Oh, this is definitely happening again. Let me take you on a coffee date, tomorrow,” he says pulling out his phone. “Can I have your number?”
Tomorrow?? oh no, no, no, no, no…tomorrow is too soon. I literally can’t do this. I have to say something —
“I can’t do tomorrow, but I’m free on the weekend.”
What I really wanted to say is I don’t know if who I am right now will exist in the morning…
Nevertheless, Guy at the Garden is satisfied with my response. He continues to spew sweet nothings of all the incredulous romantic things he wants to do for me. Lays out the recipe for an Italian dish he plans to make for me at his place on our second date (as if…). I’m listening as his words spew meaninglessly from his slightly chapped lips and I quite literally can’t take it anymore.
“I want you to know that if I never hear from you again, after tonight, I’d be perfectly okay with that,” I say slowly, cautiously.
He nods, deep in thought, burrows his naturally arched brows into a question, and asks me why I’m so okay with that. I tell him the truth. I tell him that I know he’s not the one for me — that I’m only willing to do this dating thing one more time. I have one more chance left in me for love and I don’t want to waste it.
Again, Guy at the Garden is satisfied with my response. I give him my number, with no hope that he’ll cherish it. He leaves the bar and persuades me and T to join him at the next one. We have a great time. He tells me over and over that he wants to spend more time with me. And we both understand that he means just for this night that is one of its kind.
I can’t say I didn’t have a good time — I did.
I can’t say I didn’t laugh a ton — I did.
And even if I never hear from you again, even if we never go on that coffee date…
Guy at the Garden, you served your purpose.
