Monday, February 26, 2007

Tan, rested, and ready, mostly rested

Of what does the Bachelor dream? Constantly, inevitably, inexorably, I dream of being late. Late for what? Why, a very important date, of course. The most recent manifestation of this dream: I was going to a movie. It was in Shoebox 3 at the IV-plex; but for some reason Shoebox 3 was not in the same building; in fact, it was one subway stop away from the other three. So I had to take an elevator up to the elevated station. Tick-tick-tick, about five minutes before showtime. The elevator was small and crowded, no room for me. Which meant I had to go up the stairs. (And note that this is only to the train platform, with still the train itself to catch.) Onwards and upwards, a narrow, open-air tower of a stairwell, all very Vertigo… did I make if? Of course not. I never get to her in time.

So I’m usually early. Drives everybody crazy. I know only two other people as punctual, or pre-punctual, as I am. For Saturday’s date with the Photographer, I was there first.

And I have this to report: The Curse of Wesleyans may be broken. Date after date with fetching alumnae from that noble institution led nowhere; one of the minxes even stole my Tupperwear. Then, on Saturday, a pleasant surprise. For both of us.

We walked in the park; went to have a hot beverage; took a ride in her car. Hmm, cars in Brooklyn? You know where this is headed. Down Bergen Street, holding hands. (Kids, don’t try this yourselves; we had a professional driver on a closed track.) Then, parked around the corner from my place, she attempted to steam up my glasses and fog my brain, a mission that was largely successful. By then she was three hours late for her friend’s birthday party. Plesant surprise had turned into wonder. We finally wrenched ourselves apart so she could go to that party.

But she came back for dinner.

I’ve heard this before and still don’t get it: people lie about their height, weight, and age on their internet dating profiles, things, particularly h/w, that are immediately obvious when you meet them. For people of my advanced years, sometimes much earlier photographs are used as lures. Therefore your first impression about the person is that he or she is a liar, which is obviously and absolutely the worst way to start anything. The Photographer had been burned a number of times this way. Her 3 o'clock party date was her lifesaver in case I turned out to be a dud/creep/schmuck/psycho. Being a firm believer in truth, I told her about my baby blog.

You’ll probably want to know what we had for dinner: I made some black rice and peas, with some savory lentils to go atop.

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