Date 1: First First Date

I've always had trouble with beginnings. Getting started with that exercise "routine"; writing the intro paragraph on that paper for my history of East Asian art seminar; cleaning my room. All of these activities loom large in the horizon, but once you get going it becomes easier. Like a habit. Brushing your teeth. I get anxious if my teeth aren't minty fresh before I fall asleep at night. But the boy I babysat when I was a teenager absolutely refused even to put the toothbrush into his mouth. He spent more time fighting me than it would have taken to swipe the bristles haphazardly across his canines and molars a couple of times.

Which is why when Calliope and I met for drinks this evening, and we decided that I should be the first person to get this blog/project/experiment/whatever it is going, I had a moment of panic. I hate beginnings. I go into this dating experiment kicking and screaming-- with the toothbrush clamped tightly in my fist.

Beginning to date again after being single so long -- so long out of the "game" -- is difficult. It is like having to learn to brush your teeth every night before you go to bed, or make your bed every morning when you're still groggy-eyed. It is so so easy to fall into the pattern of just letting it go. But I have decided that I will not let this dating thing go. I WILL not be the crazy pigeon lady leering at every remotely hot boy skate-boarding by me in Central Park.

I have had numerous discussions with my female (and some male) friends who live in New York City about the "dating scene" here. General consensus: it sucks. Sucks sucks sucks ass. It is like an endless buffet of glistening, skinny-jean-wearing, blond, brunette, red-haired, scruffy, artsy, clean-cut, wealthy, hipster dudes and dudettes.

If you don't get that perfect specimen of what you imagine you want (blonde-anarchist-tall-curly-haired-stockbrocker-vegetarian) the first time around, she may still be out there!!! After all, NYC is the endless buffet. If she doesn't exist here, she doesn't exist anywhere, right? I don't care what Sex and the City claims, it is THE worst city in which to be a single dating woman looking for something more than a meaningless night of sex or a week-long fling with the guy who can get you onto the list for such-and-such a party.

And yet, because of this dating-buffet it is also the best city in which to begin a dating experiment of this sort. 365 dates in 1 year. Emotional connection (DIS-connection?) with the precision, regularity, and calculation of scientists.

And here is how I broke my dating dry-spell cold turkey. Date number 1:

I met Christopher at a restaurant near his apartment in Brooklyn. The place was trendy and crowded, not a surprise for a Saturday night in his neighborhood. I've known Chris for about two or three years, but we had never really connected on a level beyond that of friendly acquaintances. Perhaps this was because we had always both been in long-term relationships; perhaps because I never really saw him as anything besides that really nice, kinda-cute guy who I could have an intellectual conversation with at my friends' beer-pong parties in Williamsburg.

So when things aligned last week (we were both out of long-term relationships, both feeling a bit raunchy after a few beers, both a little lonely) I was a bit breathless with the suddenness of our jump from mere friend-acquaintances to possible romantic partners. We kissed for the first time in a booth. I knew that getting involved with him was a very, very bad idea.

All our friends were snickering about us. He was still in love with his ex. I only like guys who are unattainable.

So when we decided to meet up for "a drink and dinner" I had fantasies of him canceling at the last minute. But when I arrived at the trendy restaurant twenty minutes late, he was waiting for me as promised.

We waited for our table for 40 minutes. An old man broke his glass of diet coke all over the bar, his pants, and the woman next to him. "It happens all the time," the bartender reassured him as the elderly gentleman's middle-aged son helped him wipe off his crotch. (I hope it was his son.) Christopher chose this moment to tell me I wasn't just a rebound. "I really like you," he said. "Thanks," I said. And for good measure: "I like you, too." And then: "Nevertheless," he continued, "I want to take this slow. I'm still hurting inside."

Good. Hopefully I'll have a boyfriend before I have to see you again. Yikes, I didn't just think that. "I'm totally ok with that, believe me."

The rest of the date went well. We talked, we laughed, we shared our commonalities. I cried a little bit on the inside because he wasn't Clark Kent, but just the nerdy-smart guy I'd always known. The softer version of my last boyfriend. Someone who would smile dopily at me, but would stand helplessly beside me while someone mugged me on the subway. Who wanted me to be the strong one, the capable one, the one who would solve all the problems.

But I, like everyone else in this multi-national, multi-cultural, multi-yada yada yada buffet city, want my Clark Kent to be Superman in disguise. I want my perfect man and I am not going to give up until I find him.

Even if it means I have to try a lot of really questionable lo mein, spicy tuna rolls, and chicken tenders before I find the perfect dish.