“… and it was enchanting to meet you.” – Taylor Swift
So I know you’re thinking that I’m over here quoting Taylor Swift and that I may have lost my damn mind, but I assure you that my mind was already long gone.
I went on a date last night (coffee, of course) but it was one that I was looking supersonically forward to. I’d been talking to this guy for a couple weeks online, and our messages were like… novels. This is important: my messages were long. Multiple paragraphs. His responses? Also multiple paragraphs.
We discussed generalities: I write. He photographs. My favorite color is cerulean. He considers color to be eye-crack and can’t choose. But it wasn’t just scratch-the-surface stuff, either. It was like, “This is everything that I’m about.”After a bit, I gave him my phone number and directed him to this very blog (he wanted to see something I’d written. It was a risk, but… this is as about as accurate a depiction of my writing that anyone’s gonna get).
We talked on the phone the day of my dentist debacle for approximately eight minutes. A word, here: I generally prefer texting over talking. In speech, there can be awkward silences (I am the master of those). In texting, you can mull it over. Erase. Not press send. So many options. Not so with the voice box. And yet. It was a pretty decent phone conversation, if I do say so myself.
So, by the time we actually met, I had already analyzed and discussed and reanalyzed everything with myself (and let’s be honest here, I would have asked the mailman his opinion on this, if I knew the mailman) a million times. I was ex-ci-ted. I was worried, though, given my last date. The picture I used was approximately 5 years old and counting. My face hadn’t fundamentally changed, but I didn’t exactly look the same.
“It’s okay,” he said, when I brought this up in a different phone conversation. “My pictures don’t look like me exactly, either. I’m growing my hair out, so I kinda have giant red hair. If I don’t put some sort of product in it I look like a super-froed Ronald McDonald.”
He’s on time. We move, once, because the vents are blowing freezing cold air even though it’s 50 degrees outside and Starbucks should know better (at the very least, Starbucks should know that I’m on a very-important-fucking-date). His hair, for the record, is not giant. And looks more Ed Sheeran messy than Ronald McDonald.
We exchange pleasantries, do the whole “how was your day” la la la, but it’s not long before we’re discussing everything… and everything. He tells me that basically, nothing is off limits. I … am not quite sure what to do with this. Like… that means… I ask you something… and you just… tell me? There’s no guessing? There’s little confusion?
WHAT IS THE GAME HERE, MAN?
We talk about his daughter (when he told her he was going on a date, she immediately told him to get his hair cut. I don’t know the kid, but she sounds awesome), our pasts, his desire to live somewhere, someday, in a simple and modernistic place, my thought that I’ll have arrived in this world when I have track lighting.
Eventually, we just start walking around. He finds $80 on the ground and says, “Someone is so sad right now,” and then, “What do we do?” I shrug. We put $40 in some dirt (paying it forward, you know), keep $20 each, and simultaneously decide we cannot keep the $20s. I throw mine on the ground, saying, “THIS IS BLOOD MONEY” (what, Amanda.) and he says, “Yeah, I feel bad,” and puts his with the other $40. (If someone went back to find their money… I bet they’d be confused. We altered the course of history.)
It was so easy. I can’t be positive, but I’m pretty sure the world would be a nicer place if all first dates were like this.
So. I know you’re over thinking that I’m quoting Taylor Swift and I’m painting everything over in watercolors, and all of the sudden I love everyone, but… not so. I still think there are some cunty people in this world.
I just had a really awesome experience and I am entirely grateful for it.
Have a good night, everyone. Be kind to yourselves.