I Went on My Second First Date in Over Six Years
(This time, I’m pretty sure it was a date.)
Oops, I did it again.
I asked a guy out, and we went on a date.
Some backstory: after I left a six-year relationship last summer, I spent several months savoring my single status. Then I decided to create a Facebook Dating profile, both because I am a glutton and also because what doesn’t kill you at least makes you stronger (of a storyteller).
I poked around Facebook Dating, seeking a way to expand my dating pool and hopefully find a fish or two worth, um, casting my net? Baiting my hook?
I don’t think I’m doing this metaphor right — and I don’t think I’ve been doing this online dating thing quite right, either.
First, I virtually met and fell for a fella far too far away, both literally and metaphorically. Next, I asked a virtual friend to get a bourbon with me last month and went on my first first date in over six years. God, he was hot. But in spite of this, I found myself feeling emotionally indifferent, even after two strong cocktails and several hours spent staring at his gorgeous cheekbones and hands.
Our date was fine, but so not juicy in any delicious way — to live or to recount — that I’m not sure it even was a date. I hoped I’d have more thrilling stories to report for my first second date, or my second first date.
Well, that second first date happened.
I’m still not sure I’m doing this online dating thing right, but I’m at least (pretty) certain this one was a date.
So, who’s the lucky guy?
Let’s call him Hank. I saw Hank’s profile photos and thought, I like this guy’s face. He looks kind.
He could also write in complete, typo-free sentences, and within his short bio, he sounded like-minded and approachable: dog lover, live show enthusiast, coffee and craft beer drinker, modestly outdoorsy and athletic, and traveler. Age appropriate, employed. And for relationship type, he’d selected, “Looking for long term relationship.”
“I’d like to meaningfully connect with someone special, ideally for a long time,” he wrote in his bio section.
Me too, Hank, me too.
So I wrote to him, commenting on a photo of his.
He replied, polite but a bit perfunctory.
Hank wasn’t a man of many words. We’d exchange a message every few days. He wasn’t dismissive, but not engaging either. I got the sense he just wasn’t into texting, not that he was a player juggling many women.
Alas, I adore getting to know someone via written words. And I love being pursued and feeling desired. I find men who find me hot, hot.
As a result, I’ve never been one to chase — well, unless you count Danny Reimer in seventh grade, who I called so many times I guess his parents called my mom, because she grounded me from the phone for a week. Maybe that’s why I don’t pursue men much: middle school trauma?
But when I signed up for online dating, I vowed to myself: I would only date if the man in question was more compelling to me than my friends, writing, volunteer work, exercise, and a good night’s sleep.
Yes, I set the bar super high — because my life is cool and my down time, limited and precious.
This meant I couldn’t just go for the ones who wrote me. I needed to nudge outside my comfort zone and be the pursuer. Who did I want to meet?
I stared down my 80 or so matches on Facebook Dating, mostly left unanswered. I’d ruled nearly all of them out: too old, too young, too far away, too boring, too fake of a profile, too not-my-kinds-of-people.
Hank seemed like the only one worth meeting. So I mustered my courage, and asked him out. He said yes! He even suggested a place, an adorable bar-slash-dog-run in my neighborhood. I’d never been on a first date with Kira before! This should be fun, I thought.
I was impressed he took the initiative to pick the place, and further delighted when he messaged me a couple days ahead to arrange a time, letting me know the bar closed at 8pm. Damn, he’s a planner! I do love a man with good executive functioning.
But in the week or so between asking and going, other than the planning, I didn’t hear from him at all. I barely knew him, and it didn’t seem like I’d learn a stitch more till we met. Oh well, I figured, not everyone is much for connecting through their thumbs, like I am.
I stayed cool and didn’t chat him up until we met old-school style, face-to-face over a beverage. The day came. I dressed cute, packed up dog treats, let some friends know where I’d be, leashed up my dog, and headed over.
Our date was… cold.
The bar where we met consists of a huge outdoor astroturfed area for dogs to play, with coverings, heat lamps, and chairs around the perimeter for the humans.
I walked in and a pack of large dogs instantly mobbed Kira. She’s pretty small and accustomed to being the belle of the ball, but she’s skittish around larger dogs and was understandably freaked out by all these lumbering, sniffy beasts moving in on her. I hoped it wasn’t an omen for the evening.
It wasn’t. I spotted Hank and his dog Victor on the far side of the space, thankfully under shelter and near some heaters, because it was really cold. And drizzly. Hank apologized several times for picking a venue so exposed to the elements but I assured him it was fine; we were Pacific Northwesterners so a bit of chill and dampness wouldn’t deter us.
Unfortunately for me, this establishment only served beer and cider. Confession: I loathe beer. I barely tolerate cider. It was so chilly, I decided to try the hot apple cider from the specials board as the least offensive of the available beverages.
Have you ever tried heating a bottle of hard cider and drinking it?
Blech. It wouldn’t recommend it.
Holding my cup of undrinkable nonsense for warmth, I sat down to get to know my date. But poor Kira just cowered. I’d brought her out for some off-leash fun; she wasn’t having it. Instead she sat beside me as Hank and I chatted about our dogs, and other stuff, and honestly I don’t really remember much of what was said. I was more focused on the undercurrent and could tell my suspicions were spot-on: Hank definitely was a kind, decent man. Kira eventually came out of hiding enough to accept some pets and treats from him. She knows good people, and clearly, Hank was one. He even offered me a poop bag when Kira, um, did her business, and then got up and took it from me to toss it in the trash. What kind of man does that? Hank, that’s who. It was seriously sweet.
Our soundtrack to the evening was excellent. We heard loads of local Northwest bands from the early-to-mid-aughts, like Modest Mouse, the Shins, the Strokes, and Fleet Foxes. Hank had good taste in tunes and we chatted about shows we’d seen, and shows we anticipated attending this year. We talked about our jobs, and a mutual friend we had in common through his work. Yes, I discovered right before our date that one of my best friend’s husband’s was his coworker. It was fun to surprise him with that tidbit, because Seattle really is one giant small town sometimes.
We had a pleasant time. Yet I could sense something about him was so chill it was almost… languorous.
I am not chill. I am a dynamo.
I know I can overwhelm people. I take on way too much, all the time, because I have so much on my plate and don’t want to let any aspect of my life go; I chronically feel like I haven’t done or seen or achieved or reveled enough. I run a bit frenetic, and my life overflows with my kids and writing and work and house projects and karaoke and volunteering and shows and… and… and…
I am a lot.
I want a lot.
But that night, I didn’t want much of anything, except for a warmer coat and a proper cocktail. I didn’t feel much either, other than cold, and annoyed with myself for once again being so emotionally disconnected, nearly disassociated, from the dating moment in front of me.
Was there no spark? Or was it me? Were my brain and heart and body all out of whack, so that I couldn’t be present and start to take this person into my senses?
Hank was attractive. He lacked the cheekbones and sartorial sense of my last date. He was comfortably cute, I’d say. We were both bundled up so we couldn’t really see each other’s bodies, other than our taste in jackets and footwear. I stared intently but surreptitiously at his jawline, his hands, his silvering hair, his brown eyes. I listened to the tone of his voice and the cadence of his speech. I tried to imagine being too close to him, smelling his neck, kissing him.
I couldn’t see it.
Something about us two, in that establishment, on that date — we had no heat, literally or romantically. I sat there, slightly shivering in my too-lightweight coat, aware of the lack of heat left in my beverage and the lack of heat from my heart, my body, in response to him.
I think this might be me? I’m 0/2 for two dates in as many months. It’s been so many years since I’ve dated. You’d think I’d be bursting at the seams to spark off with someone new.
But so far, nope.
I’ve had the too hot one.
I’ve had the too cold one.
Perhaps the next one will be just right…?
{This story originally ran in Age of Empathy on Medium on January 11, 2024.}
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Greetings!
I’m Dana DuBois, a memoirist and GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest—and founder of I Write Out Loud. I’m the co-host of The Daily Whatever Show and Editorial Director at Blue Amp Media. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.
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Sweet friend, you never know until you try and your brave steps to 'know' will lead you there. I have no doubt. I'm enjoying this tale so very much and I'm rooting for YOU!!
lol, I’m talking to a widower a lot for the past three days and the last two hours