Don't tell me I'm cute (yet)

So this guy emails me to tell me that I'm cute and he wants to chat.

For research purposes, I check out his profile - 2 blurry pictures, and one-sentence answers to everything.

Meh.

I block him. I feel kind of bad for him. I want to write to him what I'm going to write here:

Don't tell me I'm cute. This suggests you are surfing pics and writing that to every single woman you think is cute - and there are probably plenty. It suggests that you don't really care about getting to know me. I may be wrong, but I'm guessing that you are just lonely and want to get laid and don't understand why, since you aren't a total asshole, this isn't happening for you at the rate you would like (if this is true, go read the Nice Guy rant on Heartless Bitches). It's a little harsh - it even makes me cringe - but there's a lot to chew on.
For every 3 or 4 emails I get like yours, I get one that goes something like "Hi, I saw that you're into Terry Pratchett. I've been hooked on him since I read "Hogfather" - how about you?"

When I get that email I know he read what I had to say about myself. He found it at least somewhat interesting. He's doing some of the heavy lifting by coming up with something to talk about and asking me questions about myself. I know he thinks I'm cute. If he did not, he would not be messaging me.

I want to meet someone I can have an interesting conversation with. Getting to an interesting conversation from "You're cute," seems like a lot of heavy lifting. And that gets boring FAST.

Date #1: Tom

Looking back, the first date of the year completely failed to set the tone for the drama, craziness and fun that was to come. I could spell it out for you - what he looked like, how he sounded, what we talked about, the progression of the date and why we didn't truly connect. But frankly it's just not that interesting to read or even to write. Tom was a sincere, intelligent and interesting person and I can't really poke fun at him. We had a pleasant time. Pleasant, and chemistry-free.

It would be much easier to poke fun at myself. I turned up in a hated plaid magenta button-down - the last clean top in my closet, or at least the last clean top suitable for an outing in freezing weather. I was recovering from a cold and regularly excused myself to the bathroom to blow my nose and bark. Despite this, we chatted happily through dumplings and tea, bonding over Terry Pratchett and a shared distaste for religious orthodoxy. Things seemed to be going well. We had things in common, and conversation was flowing. Tom suggested we go elsewhere for coffee.

At that point, I thought I was in. You don't drag out the date with someone you dislike or find unattractive. My withered ego began to stir. Questions of whether or not I liked Tom were eclipsed by the heady realization that Tom apparently liked me - well enough to spend another hour with me over coffee.

We went in search of coffee and found ourselves in an Irish pub, which happily served coffee. And then things began to fall apart. The dusty bar irritated my throat and my cough, which I had so far kept strictly confined to frequent trips to the ladies room, blasted out of control. I rushed off to the bathroom.

Embarrassing as that was, I suspect the date really went south when I volunteered that I make a fresh budget with every paycheck. Yes, I know some of you fancy people out there who are super comfortable with managing your money just make a budget at the beginning of the year and just stick with it. But having tried that in the past, I now make a mini budget once or twice a month, look at my savings and what's going on in my life, and sort it out. It works for me, I explained. He got this look in his eyes.

I don't remember when I dropped my scarf on the floor, but at the end of the date I had to make a judgment call - was I going to bundle up with or without the scarf that had so recently resided on the bar floor, which had come into contact God Only Knows What? After some private interior deliberation I nonchalantly wrapped the scarf around my neck. Don't judge me. It was cold. I can wash my neck when I get home, I thought.

Later, when I emailed to say I'd had a very nice time, he told me he thought we should just be friends.

Friends? I was pissed. My pride was hurt. I wanted to say "Listen, buddy. I am not that into you either, but I made a decision to give you a chance. Why can't you do the same? You're everything that's wrong with dating in New York!"

Even at that stage of my dating experiment, however, I knew this would be a bad idea. So we met for an amicable brunch the next week and then never spoke again.

Perhaps I shouldn't have told him about the time I accidentally stole a designer umbrella.

A date a week: how it all began

A certain amount of time ago, in a certain very large east-coast city, I made a belated New Year's resolution: mostly because I had already been successfully doing it for a month.

I resolved that I would go on one date a week for the entire year. I'm happy being single - was then, am now. But when I'm 80 years old and surrounded by cats, I want to look back without regrets - and preferably with plenty of good stories. And anyway, dating was starting to look like fun.

Obviously, I didn't meet Mr Right that year - I don't even believe in Mr Right but that's another, much longer, post. But I had a great time, met a lot of interesting men, and learned a lot.