twenty-something

When he sent a text at 12:28 - two minutes before our appointed meeting time - to say he'd be late, I responded from ourside out appointed meeting place with calm "no worries" when, really, that's kind of a big deal. Late on a first date? Not cool.

But he got another pass. Because, you know... hot.

When he showed up, about twenty minutes late, he was wearing a black leather jacket. Not my style, but certainly not a deal-breaker. He looked good in it. Hot, even. So I told myself not to judge, even though I already had.

The brunch place he'd chosen was absolutely packed at that point on a Sunday. There was a long wait and he'd have none of it. He was hungover and starving, he said. So we rushed to a place I suggested -- one I'd walked by twice while waiting for him to show up, one that had no line. Our pace, set entirely by him, was brisk, and the conversation skipped from brief topic to brief topic. He seemed like some important mid-level executive you see on TV, bouncing like a pinball from meeting to meeting, who was doing me a favor by fitting me into his very busy schedule for a quick lunch.

Another pass. Why not? Even if his behavior wasn't attractive, he sure was.

At the second restaurant, he went right for the host stand, possibly cutting a couple that appeared to be waiting for attention, and put his name in. He meant business. We were seated quickly, in the bar-lounge area, and given menus. He quickly decided on what he wanted to eat while I still hadn't decided if I wanted coffee yet. He looked around impatiently for our waitress and instructed me to do the same.

I didn't take any of this to be outright rudeness to me or disinterest -- it just seemed like his personality. His emails, his phone calls, everything about him seemed short and rushed. I didn't take any of it too personal. First dates are strange beasts, and I try my best to remain patient, even when the other party is doing his best to get on my nerves.

He flagged down the first employee he could and stated that we hadn't been served yet. She looked right at me in that instant, her eyes speaking volumes, but her polite voice saying something completely different. She remained polite and promised we'd be served right away. I was embarrassed and tried, with my eyes, to express a bunch of things back to her, mainly that I was sorry.

My date's fast-paced mania was like oil to my laid-back vinegar. If there's one thing that's a deal-breaker for me -- besides smoking -- it's being rude or impatient with wait staff.

And yet I granted him yet another pass.

He was pleased that we were, indeed, served swiftly. He downed his coffee quickly and finished his food in less than half the time I took. I honestly didn't think that crab cakes could be devoured so quickly outside of the professional eating circuit.

Surpringly, during the meal, despite his marathon pace, some real conversation sparked between chewing and things got a bit better. I relaxed and he, at times, seemed to as well. We got to a point where I thought, "maybe we do have something in common," when he interjected a comment about needing to hit the gym immediately to work off the Hollandaise from his breakfast. As I gazed over my half-eaten western omelet at his ectomorphic frame, I knew deep within my endomorphic soul that we were just built differently, inside and out.

I forced myself to finish my meal a lot faster than I would've preferred. He flagged over the waitress for the check, commented to me that he seriously had to go and get to the gym, and then headed to the bathroom. When he returned, I handed him some cash and he quickly dispatched with the bill. Brunch in the South End was over.

Moments later, we shook hands and exchanged formalities as we parted ways on the street. He surprised me when he said to call him. I instinctively said I would. In hindsight, it was just another formality, but in the moment it seemed genuine. Even though my gut told me to hop in my Volvo and high-tail it out of the South End without a second glance, the insecure teenage girl deep inside me emerged and forced me to pause. A hot guy might be interested in me? It doesn't matter if I'm interested in him. I have to act like an idiot and see where this goes!

I did hop in my car and hit the highway, but for the first time since meeting him, I wondered if there might b a second date. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have given our first another thought. I'd have cut my loses and moved on. But that teenager inside me started to doodle in her Lisa Frank notebook and obsess about the phone call I'd promised to make.

I knew that, under the hood, he wasn't my kind of guy. I didn't think he was a bad person by any means, but he just wasn't the guy for me. But like every shiny, pretty car that you know you can't afford, you kind of want a test drive. If I was a Volvo wagon, then he was an Audi convertible -- or some other really desirable, fancy car that gays in the South End like to drive. I haven't the faintest idea what's the "it" car at the moment, but whatever it is - that was him.

I reported back to my friends that the date was mediocre, that I wasn't particularly interested in the guy and I think the feeling was mutual. But he got my blood boiling, I admitted, in good and bad ways. Which is never a good thing - or, I suppose, a bad thing, either.

One friend suggested that my laid-back energy could be the ying to his high-energy, frantic yang, that we might balance each other out. I wasn't quite sure about that, but I did remember that when my grandmother mixes oil and vinegar for salad dressing, it's downright damn delicious...

I supposed that a spark, any spark, even a tiny one made of physical-attraction-mixed-with-minor-disgust, was better than the apathy I felt after most first dates. My blood hadn't boiled in months, so perhaps that was better than nothing. What was the harm in another test drive?

So I compromised with my inner teen. I wrote an email rather than call, and I went by the book, through the motions. "Had a good time. How 'bout that snow? Dinner and a movie?" The whole nine yards and various other clichés.

Not long after, I got a brief response from him.

"I have to say that I didn't feel romantic chemistry. Such is life."

Man.

He was honest and classy, which is all you can really ask for in the dating world, and short and sweet, just like the rest of him. We weren't a match, and we both knew it. He just made the call sooner than I was willing to. No worries. No hard feelings. And in the end, I felt respected rather than hurt, and I appreciated him for calling a spade a spade.

But rejected by a guy who was rude to a waitress without just cause? That's a new low, even for me and the foolish teenager inside me.