Actually, let me backtrack a bit to give you a few details. I had seen him around the advertising agency where I was freelancing. Me, writer. Him, art director. A perfect setup, conceptually. Nevertheless, he had this longish, graying hair, and I never saw him with one of those pitiful little ponytail stubs. Just long and straight-ish, with a flirty wave. A good sign. He wore a black leather jacket that gracefully outlined his physique and highlighted his most attractive derriere. Suitably hip clothes. And shoes that didn't offend, though they held no certain attitude. Nondescript and black. Good enough. No moustache or offensive facial hair. And he had this Dennis Hopper-kind of mystery about him. He walked with a boyish gait. I liked what I saw.
I had seen him on another floor and he was sketching out a storyboard or something. He smiled. I smiled. He seemed pleasant enough and even offered up some witty remark – about what I can't remember. But it was fetching enough. Enough so that we exchanged phone numbers and emails. After all, we WERE both freelancers. That we had in common. A good start, I thought.
A few phone calls ensued and then he asked me to go to lunch. Perfect. Just enough time to see if we could talk, if there were sparks. And if there were both or neither, we could leave each other either wanting more or thankful to part.
So he picked me up at work. He wasn't working that day. I was. I saw him drive up in a black pickup truck. I immediately didn't like this. Not that there is anything wrong with trucks, they just aren’t what I prefer. I decided that my current singleness was due to such snap, prejudicial decisions, so I said to myself, "Just get over it. This is Texas. In that cab might be your prince." So in the truck I got. He smiled and music was playing. Again, something nondescript, but I was really thankful it wasn't Conway Twitty. (Nothing against him, just not my style.)
As we drove, I noticed some feathers that hung from his rear view mirror. He said he collected them.
"This one is from a Mockingbird. This one from a Sparrow. And this one, the Bluebird – the bird of intuition."
I quipped, "Well, I guess your intuition lead you to the bird of intuition."
He looked blank. Forced a smile. Connection failure.
Datemares: Tangled Up in Ivy
Find out how a dream date with an Ivy League grad didn't go quite as planned. continue >>
We walked into a Japanese place, and decided on the sushi buffet. (My present boyfriend now says that those two words, sushi buffet, frighten him.) We sat down with our plates and began to talk. He was pleasant to look at. He seemed about the right age, early 40s and, like me, had never been married.
We somehow got off on the dubious subject of astrology. It never fails with me. Someone – the guy at 7-Eleven or airport cabbie – is always asking my sign. So I said Virgo. He said something else, but not something readily identifiable as a compatible sign. But no worries. Some of my most torrid, passionate, wonderful relationships have been with people who were astrologically unfit.
We then talked Chinese astrology. Good, interesting, I thought. Not your average astrological chatter. He could be on to something. After all, there is wisdom in the East.
"I'm a rooster," he said.
We determined I was a rat.
"I'm a rat," I said.
We giggled a bit. He smiled. His teeth were straight and white. I was reminded that I needed a visit to the dentist for some whitening gel.
We were dental equals.
We then started talking about hobbies. I said I wrote. He said he was into relationships. As in seminars. As in giving them. Hmmm. This gave me a moment of pause. What could he mean? Is this Dr. Phil Junior? Men-Are-From-Yet-Another-Planet Man? I listened and as I am wont to do – I pride myself on this quality. Again, he could be on to something, I thought.
Quickly thinking, I said I was into exercise. Yoga, specifically. He asked what kind. I told him of my checkered exercise life, my past of aerobic, step and spin, which now was replete with asanas, down dogs, and chatarangas. He seemed genuinely interested and said he, too, was into exercise.
"I do belly dancing," is what I heard from the other side of the table.
"Do you wear a fez and pointy shoes?" I asked
"Yes," he replied.
"What about pantaloons?"
"Yes," he enthusiastically replied.
"What about a veil?"
"It depends," he said, and while he was telling me about when a veil is and is not worn, I went off into a dream.
…Dan, I haven't even told you his name, mea culpa, Dan was standing at the foot of my bed. In his I Dream Of Jeanie garb. I saw his blue eyes gazing at me just above the thin blue veil. He knelt at my bedside, placing his jeweled hand on mine, offering me exotic treats of lamb, hummus and ... Cheetos – Whoa! Back to the present, get back there now!....
As I snapped back into reality, I then heard him say, “And I make my own costumes."
"Make?"
"Sew. I sew them," and he then proceeded to pull out a little spiral-bound sketchbook and proudly showed me his creations.
"Ooooh ... aaaaah ... that's a nice one." I said, looking at his little vests and puffy pants. They were dashed out in black, thin Marksalot and heavily outlined. I could imagine him at the Taj Mahal restaurant, sitting on the patio with a plate of babaganoush, hovering over his sketchbook, sketching wildly, sipping occasionally on his Turkish coffee.
"This one, I'm thinking sequins and velvet. Maybe some paisley and ... " he continued. His manner of speaking was not the least bit feminine, neither in word nor gestures. In this age of Gay Popularity, I have become hypersensitive and anxious that every hip man I meet could be gay. There were no other telltale signs that would cause a woman to wonder — such as him being a former male cheerleader or member of a ballet company. To quote a character on Seinfeld, “… not that there’s anything wrong with that.” And as cliché as it sounds, I have many gay friends. But I wasn’t looking for a friend, I was on a date.
"Do you work up a sweat when you do this belly dancing?"
"Oh YEAH," he said. "I get exhausted."
"Well," I said. "Imagine that."
"I get sweaty with yoga, too. I love to sweat. Makes me feel like I'm purging and cleansing. Love that. Good for you," I said, rambling into incoherency.
"I know," he finally said, beaming.
I looked across the table and tried to imagine kissing him, but sadly, I could not.
"I even teach. Well, I'm working on getting certified. I work down at the Taj Mahal. Upstairs. In the studio."
I felt remorseful about casting aspersions on a professional belly dancer, my mystic metrosexual. But I just could not imagine myself describing my partner’s belly dancing profession when asked by friends, family and strangers how he achieved his great physique. Somehow, the vision of an undulating six-pack just didn't do it for me.
Why was this? What was wrong with me? Was he crossing gender lines in a way that made me uneasy?
Perhaps. I mean, I am now dating a man who is an interior designer. And I get smirks and quizzical looks from friends who can’t believe someone who dresses so spectacularly could be heterosexual. This skepticism is a reflection of the dismal state of our dating society. But the bigger point IS, well, I just didn't feel comfortable about that aspect of him. I could handle a man who was adept at flower-arranging, even hairdressing — that was Warren Beatty-sexy-cool. But why could I not equate this hobby to sensuality?
Maybe the belly dancing thing threatened my sense of femininity. Or, if he started with belly dancing, would it be the old foot-in-the-door thing ... and what would follow would be flamenco dancing or worse, clogging. Or, was I using the belly dancing as an excuse to avoid intimacy because I was sexually uncomfortable with a man who dances as a hobby? What about my femininity was I not happy with? I can cook, sort of. I can't and won't sew. I love to clean, but that's my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I get my hair, brows, nails and toes done, religiously. Apply masks to my face and feet. Love to decorate. I sing, play the piano and paint. I ooh and ahh over my infant nephew, and babies I see in carriers in the Sack 'n Save and, yes, at my ripe old age, am starting to want to be a mother. For lack of any better term or creativity on my part, I must concede to Helen Reddy: I Am Woman.
Truth is, I'm very male. I pursue the men. I set the traps. And when they get close, I flee. For fear that there is something better out there. Maybe the problem with Dan is that I was too much of a man, and he, for better or worse, was too much of a woman. Maybe that was it. Maybe this was the fact, the truth, that I just couldn't stomach.
About True