If you read yesterday's post, you know that I went on a pretty great first date on Sunday night ... with a guy (code name: Sir Hugo) on whom I feel rather keen.
Well ... except for the truly glaring problem that he is unemployed. Although, as you'll see in the comments to yesterday's post, at least ONE reader found happiness by dating a guy who was searching for a new career (at age 38) when she met him.
But really, once I made it to the date, and we began talking, I found I wasn't terribly concerned about his existential crisis, beyond the fact that I wanted to help him figure out.
There were so many other things to discuss, however, I didn't end up mentioning some of the thoughts I had about possible career options for him. Towards midnight, the conversation moved to our relationships to our families ... and since I'd mentioned my father but not my mother, Sir Hugo was wondering what the deal was. "Are you close to your mom?" he asked.
She died a million years ago now, and yet I still always feel slightly awkward mentioning it. So I took a big gulp of water--and as I was putting the glass back down on the table, an enormous splash somehow richoceted up and hit me in the eye. I had to wipe it away, even while saying, "She died when I was a kid. But I'm not crying about it--I've just been viciously attacked by my beverage."
The talk continued to flow, even after we paid the check, even as the wait staff was removing tables from the patio where we were sitting. Sir Hugo was facing the restaurant, while I was facing the street, and at one point, I looked back behind me and noticed the entire place had cleared out; we were the only customers left.
"They seem to be cool with us staying," he reassured me.
Well, all rightie then. If he'd been raring to go, that would have been a perfect (and not-at-all-awkward) moment in which to wrap things up. I was glad that it seemed he was having a fine time.
Eventually, though, I finally said, "Maybe we shouldn't wear out our welcome. But do you mind if I use the ladies' room before we take off?"
When I arrived in the lavatory, I happened to glance in the mirror--only to find that my new mascara was distinctly NOT waterproof. There was a huge black smudge under my right eye! I mean HUGE. And BLACK! Like someone had put a square piece of duct tape there! The water accident had been more damaging than I'd realized!
The evening had been so comfortable, though, I wasn't completely mortified. And when I walked back out, the first thing I said to Sir Hugo was: "You should have told me I had that enormous smear of mascara on my face!"
He apologized, and, as we strolled over to my bike, I said something about how I'd looked like a football player, getting ready to hit the field. Then we both wondered why the hell it is--does anyone know?--that football players put those stripes under their eyes. (Is it to cut down on sun glare? And if so, why don't all athletes do it? Is it because of all the field sports, it is only the footballers who need to look up into the sun so often, as they try to see where the ball is?)
"I bet this is the kind of thing my guy friends will know," I said. "I should look into it."
"Well," Sir Hugo said, "why don't you do that, and report back to me the next time about what you find out?"
"Sure," I said, slightly taken aback, realizing the night was finally coming to a close, not at all abruptly--and yet a moment or two sooner than I was expecting. "That sounds good."
Then he reached over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek, a shoulder squeeze, and said, "Have a nice week."
I stood at my bike, unlocking it, trying to decipher our parting.
Have a nice week: That could indicate that he wanted to see me again after the week was over, and hadn't asked me to hang out that very week because I'd already mentioned (over the phone) I'd be quite busy for the next many days. Right?
At the very least, wasn't it good that he'd said Have a nice week as opposed to Have a nice life ... ?
Or was I just grasping at straws?
When I looked up again, he had turned around and was waving a final good-bye.
The question here is : Will I ever hear from him again? If he both didn't properly smooch me (i.e. try to stick his tongue in my mouth) AND we didn't have a more concrete discussion about a second date, should I just write this thing off?
I kind of feel like I should ... and yet ... we did have quite a nice time, and I'm pretty sure there was some mutual chemistry.
dear Meg: hey, i love your story about your previously-unemployed BF! it was good for me to hear that it's certainly worth taking a chance on someone who is unemployed. thanks for sharing the details.
and dear Raye and Edwinna and Secret Agent Madge: I am ready to give him a chance! The question, though, seems to be : Is he ready to give me one, despite the mascara malfunction and all the rest?
and Ms. Scarlett: Frankly, my darling, I DO give a damn--and I'm so glad you're reading along!