Part 2
The Courtly Bulldog and I arrived at more or less the same time, but in different areas of the park. He called me to find out where I was, so I stayed put and guided him to me in my spot in the shade. So I really didn’t get a good look at him until just a couple of seconds before saying hello.
Have you ever seen a movie where they’re panning over someone from the feet up and you’re super invested in what this person is going to look like? That’s how it was because the Courtly Bulldog was approaching me from behind some trees.
I got worried when I saw his shoes—black loafers. And then he got closer and I saw navy blue slacks—pleated!—that were hiked up somewhere above his belly button. And then the bottom of a green polo shirt that was tucked in to the slacks. And then, oh my God, a huge beard. To complete the look, he was wearing giant old man glasses and he lumbered ever closer without moving his arms from where they hung limp at his sides.
He was about ten feet away from me, and I knew he’d seen me but my mind was screaming, “NONONONONONONO!” and I was desperately trying to figure out a way that I could pretend I wasn’t me, just some girl who looked like me and was on the phone in the place I’d said I was.
Then he said my name and I knew that there was no way I was getting out of here without taking a walk with this guy. I reminded myself to be nice. Yes, I was still annoyed about the day before. And yes, I found him intensely unattractive but it wasn’t his fault. It wouldn’t kill me to take a walk with someone, and at least I knew he had decent conversational skills.
As it turned out, the Courtly Bulldog was only good at communicating via phone and text. In person, he was insufferable. At some point I made a throwaway comment about how squirrels are the jerks of the animal world and he was like, “Well, I’m sure that technically there are worse animals. Consider that bears are a menace not only to humans but other wildlife…” and I stopped listening.
Later on, I was interested by the texture of some weird pine needles (which is probably the best indication of how this date was going) and when I touched them, I said, “Huh, they’re kind of like rubber.” Then he corrected me and told me that no, that was not their texture at all. I nearly tore a branch off the tree and shoved it in his mouth to stop the condescension. But I didn’t do that and I’m calling it a win.
Eventually I stopped talking because every damn time I tried to say something or make a joke, he would take it in the most literal way possible and correct me. I think he thought he was making witty banter. Now, I don’t particularly mind awkward silences, mainly because they don’t embarrass me. But the Courtly Bulldog seemed unable to bear the conversational vacuum and he tried to fill it up by humming to himself, off-key.
At some point as we were nearing the home stretch of our walk, he said, “Goodness, you really are short.” And then he proceeded to reach out and pat the top of my head. Like I was a dog. I quickly ducked out from under his clammy hand, and said, “No.”
He was shocked that patting a woman on the head was a major faux pas. Alternatively, I was shocked that I hadn’t started screaming yet. He made things worse by repeatedly saying, "Well, there must be something I can do to make it up to you." And he was serious. Not trying to make a sexy innuendo, or being self-deprecating. No, he wanted me to name something he could do to make me un-annoyed at him for being a boring, lady-head-patting dud. What was I supposed to say?
Finally, we had made a circuit of the park. I could see my ancient toaster oven of a car, and it has never looked so beautiful to me. I said, “Well, this was nice. You have a good day.” He said something back. I have no idea what it was because I was smiling and nodding and edging toward my car.
The whole way home, I was chain smoking and laughing a little crazily like I had just had a near-death experience. My roommates asked me how it went, and I said, “I am so mad. I don’t want to talk about it.” So we had margaritas and tried to pretend the whole thing never happened.
Except he texted me the next day. I didn’t want or know how to reply, but I felt kind of sorry for the guy. I crowdsourced the question and my Facebook friends came up with a pretty good but firm sendoff, which I texted back about an hour later. And that was the end of that.
I felt a lot of things in the wake of my recent dating failures: relief, disappointment, irritation. I considered taking a break from online dating and just playing video games instead. But eventually I strengthened my resolve. I started doing this because I wanted to find out who was out there and meet new people. Statistically, I had to come across someone who didn’t make me want to tear my own face off.
It was with this half-assed sort of optimism that I responded to an overture from the Ginger Capuchin. I was in for possibly the worst date yet.
The Courtly Bulldog and I arrived at more or less the same time, but in different areas of the park. He called me to find out where I was, so I stayed put and guided him to me in my spot in the shade. So I really didn’t get a good look at him until just a couple of seconds before saying hello.
Have you ever seen a movie where they’re panning over someone from the feet up and you’re super invested in what this person is going to look like? That’s how it was because the Courtly Bulldog was approaching me from behind some trees.
I got worried when I saw his shoes—black loafers. And then he got closer and I saw navy blue slacks—pleated!—that were hiked up somewhere above his belly button. And then the bottom of a green polo shirt that was tucked in to the slacks. And then, oh my God, a huge beard. To complete the look, he was wearing giant old man glasses and he lumbered ever closer without moving his arms from where they hung limp at his sides.
He was about ten feet away from me, and I knew he’d seen me but my mind was screaming, “NONONONONONONO!” and I was desperately trying to figure out a way that I could pretend I wasn’t me, just some girl who looked like me and was on the phone in the place I’d said I was.
Then he said my name and I knew that there was no way I was getting out of here without taking a walk with this guy. I reminded myself to be nice. Yes, I was still annoyed about the day before. And yes, I found him intensely unattractive but it wasn’t his fault. It wouldn’t kill me to take a walk with someone, and at least I knew he had decent conversational skills.
As it turned out, the Courtly Bulldog was only good at communicating via phone and text. In person, he was insufferable. At some point I made a throwaway comment about how squirrels are the jerks of the animal world and he was like, “Well, I’m sure that technically there are worse animals. Consider that bears are a menace not only to humans but other wildlife…” and I stopped listening.
Later on, I was interested by the texture of some weird pine needles (which is probably the best indication of how this date was going) and when I touched them, I said, “Huh, they’re kind of like rubber.” Then he corrected me and told me that no, that was not their texture at all. I nearly tore a branch off the tree and shoved it in his mouth to stop the condescension. But I didn’t do that and I’m calling it a win.
Eventually I stopped talking because every damn time I tried to say something or make a joke, he would take it in the most literal way possible and correct me. I think he thought he was making witty banter. Now, I don’t particularly mind awkward silences, mainly because they don’t embarrass me. But the Courtly Bulldog seemed unable to bear the conversational vacuum and he tried to fill it up by humming to himself, off-key.
At some point as we were nearing the home stretch of our walk, he said, “Goodness, you really are short.” And then he proceeded to reach out and pat the top of my head. Like I was a dog. I quickly ducked out from under his clammy hand, and said, “No.”
He was shocked that patting a woman on the head was a major faux pas. Alternatively, I was shocked that I hadn’t started screaming yet. He made things worse by repeatedly saying, "Well, there must be something I can do to make it up to you." And he was serious. Not trying to make a sexy innuendo, or being self-deprecating. No, he wanted me to name something he could do to make me un-annoyed at him for being a boring, lady-head-patting dud. What was I supposed to say?
Finally, we had made a circuit of the park. I could see my ancient toaster oven of a car, and it has never looked so beautiful to me. I said, “Well, this was nice. You have a good day.” He said something back. I have no idea what it was because I was smiling and nodding and edging toward my car.
The whole way home, I was chain smoking and laughing a little crazily like I had just had a near-death experience. My roommates asked me how it went, and I said, “I am so mad. I don’t want to talk about it.” So we had margaritas and tried to pretend the whole thing never happened.
Except he texted me the next day. I didn’t want or know how to reply, but I felt kind of sorry for the guy. I crowdsourced the question and my Facebook friends came up with a pretty good but firm sendoff, which I texted back about an hour later. And that was the end of that.
I felt a lot of things in the wake of my recent dating failures: relief, disappointment, irritation. I considered taking a break from online dating and just playing video games instead. But eventually I strengthened my resolve. I started doing this because I wanted to find out who was out there and meet new people. Statistically, I had to come across someone who didn’t make me want to tear my own face off.
It was with this half-assed sort of optimism that I responded to an overture from the Ginger Capuchin. I was in for possibly the worst date yet.
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