Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  I am deducing that you’re an Upper East Sider, too? The “saving lives” part is a bit more mysterious. Are you a firefighter? EMT? Veterinarian?

  Cheers,

  Alison

  After the exchange of a handful of articulate, cute-enough emails about how he has very little time to date but is looking for a relationship like the one his parents have, I’m walking into Uva, a wine bar, to meet Matt. I’m equal parts jittery and excited to get to know this thirty-four-year-old oncologist who, in his photos, sports a childish grin.

  I have to do a double take to pick him out sitting at the bar, since he has no hair. Maybe not no hair, but significantly less than he has in his photos. My mind is quickly shuffling through the photos I can remember, flip-book style. Doctor’s scrubs and a surgeon’s cap, a Mets hat in the stands of Citi Field . . .

  “Matt?”

  “Hey! Nice to meet you!”

  “No, no. Don’t get up.”

  He extends a rather firm handshake. “I’m half a glass ahead of you. Don’t know how into wine you are, but I can offer a few recommendations.”

  As I’m perusing the menu, he asks where I grew up, tells me about his apartment, asks about my job. And then:

  “So what would you say is your best feature?”

  I blink. Twice. “Is this an interview?” I smile, trying to pass my discomfort off as humor.

  “No. I’m serious. What’s your best feature?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Is it your . . . hair, your personality, your butt?”

  I breathe in. And stumble through a few uhhhs and ummms. “I guess . . . I have a lot of personality? . . . I don’t know. . . . Spunk?”

  “What does that mean, ‘you have a lot of personality?’”

  “I don’t know. I guess . . . I’m really chatty? I can pretty much talk to a doorknob. And . . . I think that’s a not-terrible quality in a lot of situations?” I pause and quickly throw it back at him. “What about you? What’s your best feature?”

  “My hands,” he says matter-of-factly.

  Before I can follow up on his cheapskate answer, he’s moving on to his next line of questioning. “So what brought you to Match.com?”

  Friends have told me everyone talks about this on their Match dates, and I’ve always been mystified as to why. On a non-Match first date, you don’t talk about your previous bad dates. Or good dates. . . . Do you? It’s almost as if they’re searching for instant kinship or an insider’s club just because you’ve both turned to the Internet for its matchmaking prowess. “Well, I recently got out of a three-year relationship and—”

  “Whoa. That’s a really long time!”

  “Perhaps, but I—”

  “Were you living together?”

  “No. But—”

  “That’s, like, a really long time! When did you break up?”

  “Last month. So then—”

  “And are you ready to date yet?”

  “Uh. I think so? I hope so? Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” I shrug.

  “Okay. You joined Match then . . .”

  “Right. So I recently got out of a three-year relationship,” I sound out slowly, waiting to see if he’ll jump in again with twenty questions, “and I realized that I don’t really have a mechanism for meeting new people. After college, pretty much my entire class moved to New York City, and there’s still a rather wide circle of us who are really close.” He nods. “It’s totally wonderful; we all go out together at night, watch football together . . . but it’s also inherently limiting from a dating standpoint. Everyone I’ve ever dated, I went to college with. And since that hasn’t worked out, you know, permanently? I hoped Match would help expand my horizons, or my dating pool at least?”

  “So how long have you been on Match?”

  “Since last week. How about you?”

  “For nine years.”

  NINE YEARS?! I force myself to smile faintly in encouragement and try to come up with something polite to say. How do you follow that? “Have you been on the whole time? Or did you go on and off, depending on . . . whether you met someone . . . or where your personal life, or work life stood at that time? . . .” I raise my voice at the end trying to form a legitimate question.

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, I’ve just stayed on the whole time.”

  Then he cracks a smile and says, “Naaah, I’m just kidding.” Except when he says he’s kidding, he reaches over and puts his hand on my inner thigh. My stomach turns, and I internally panic just a little. How to subtly remove his hand from my leg? I look up, around the room, at the ceiling, all around, trying to feign thinking, hoping he’ll get the hint that I’m not quite digging this whole touching thing.

  “Uhh, cool.” I stumble, “So . . . which part . . . are you kidding about?” I pick up the menu and lean in to get the bartender’s attention so I can order. His hand is still there.

  “The never-going-off part. I have been on for nine years. I have also deactivated my account every now and then.” This isn’t totally reassuring.

  “That’s when you reactivate your Tinder app, right?” I smile, joking.

  “Oh, you don’t need to deactivate Tinder. You just don’t log on that day. Or week. . . . I take it you’re not on Tinder?”

  I shake my head. “I’m new to this whole meet-strangers-on-the-Internet thing, so I thought I should wade into the shallow end slowly.” He doesn’t respond, so I continue. “Not that I’m an expert—well, obviously—but I get the sense that the apps all move forward way faster, and I kind of like the idea of exchanging getting-to-know-you emails and having some lead up before you meet in person.”

  “Maybe. It’s just not as efficient as Tinder . . . or Hinge or Happn.”

  Interesting word choice. “Have you tried all of those?”

  “Yeah, I’m on all of those. Everyone is. You probably should be, too. Don’t you feel like you’re doing yourself a disservice by only using one?”

  It’s a legitimate question. “I guess I just need to take baby steps for now. For me, the Match profiles and messaging system offer, I don’t know, a mini vetting process, which doesn’t happen with the others? It somehow feels a little less superficial than ‘swipe right on the hot people, swipe left on the . . . not-so-hot people.’”

  “People text before meeting on Tinder, too.”

  “Yeah, but, can you get a real sense of someone’s personality through a quick text? Match profiles and emails divulge a lot more. I kind of want to know the person I’m committing an evening to. . . .”

  “So what are you looking for on Match?”

  “We are just full of direct questions today, aren’t we?” I joke. Except not.

  “Well?”

  “I guess . . . someone to have adventures with? To cook with, to travel with? To laugh with? Who can maybe be what my sister and I have dubbed the ‘porch swing candidate?’”

  “And that is?”

  “The person you want to grow old and gray with . . . and share your porch swing with?” I shrug.

  “So you’re looking for ‘The One?’”

  “I don’t know that I think there is only one porch swing candidate for each of us.” I hedge, “I think there can be several, but timing can obviously impact candidacy. And then out of the many candidates, there becomes one. Does that make sense?”

  “Not really.” We both laugh. “Well, do you have ‘a type’?”

  “I don’t know.” I slowly chew over Matt’s question. “My last two boyfriends were outwardly quite similar—six-foot-two, six-foot-three, blond-haired, blue-eyed rowers—though inwardly quite different. And both complemented me really well. . . . I guess I don’t want to, just, tick a lot of boxes, but maybe be a bit more open-minded, assume the next guy doesn’t have to fit their specific mold?”

  “Okay, so, who would be your ideal date?”

  I pause to formulate an answer . . . except I can’t. I actually don’t know. “I guess I want to see what’s out
there. What about you? What are you looking for?”

  “Well, I’m thirty-four and I’d like to be married yesterday.” So the Match rumors I’ve heard are true! But why do people think this makes for good first date conversation? “What’s the worst Match date you’ve ever had?”

  “You’re my first Match date.”

  “Wait, really?”

  “Mmmhmm. So . . . I guess this one?” I raise my eyebrows. This, though true, is a bit harsh. So I add, “But in fairness, by default it is also the best Match date I’ve ever had.” Crud! Now I sound like I’m interested. So I clarify, “You know, since it’s the only one I’ve had.”

  “Do you want to hear about my worst Match date?”

  No. But I also don’t want to be rude. “I guess . . . if you want to tell me about it? I also don’t feel a need to swap battle stories if you don’t want to.”

  “No, it’s a great story!”

  The bartender arrives with my glass of wine, and I thankfully have a reason to reach for my purse, thereby, at long last, setting free my thigh from his grip.

  “Oh, please. Put away your wallet,” he urges. “My treat. And let’s cheers to your first Match date.” But then he replaces his hand on my knee. “So I was at Marquee. Have you been there? That place is incredible on Wednesdays . . .” He drones on, name-dropping and regaling me with a long-winded description of his evenings filled with “you know, models and bottles.” I’m half-listening, half-staring at his hand on my knee. Without saying anything, I carefully pick up his hand, move it four inches to the right, and drop it so it falls to his side. He looks down at his hand, seems unfazed, and continues, “So this woman, who’s a cop and a single mom,” as if both are crazy, far-fetched occupations, “is giving me a lap dance and—”

  “Wait. This is a Match date?”

  “Yeah, and—” Now it’s me cutting him off.

  “You had a Match date at Marquee on a Wednesday?”

  “Well I was out with friends, we’d never met, and I texted her to come out. So anyway, she’s giving me a lap dance and . . .” He cuts himself off, noticing his empty glass, “Do you want another round?”

  “No!” I blurt out a little too eagerly. “Uhh, I mean, I’m cool, thanks. I’ve . . . gotta get up . . . this thing . . . early tomorrow.” Smooth!

  “Okay. Anyway, so she’s giving me a lap dance at Marquee and my friend is just, he’s just snapping photos on his phone and . . .”

  I’m walking home from the subway when my phone vibrates.

  January 19 at 10:06 p.m.

  MATT:

  HOPE YOU WEREN’T SCARED OFF BY THE WHOLE NINE YEAR THING. THAT WAS FUN - WANNA DO IT AGAIN?

  I respond with two truths and a lie.

  ALISON:

  THANKS. I REALLY ENJOYED MEETING YOU TONIGHT, BUT I’M NOT SURE WE’RE A GOOD MATCH. HOPE IT WORKS OUT FOR YOU SOON - GOOD LUCK!

  bmorecrabcake: Breakup Brendan

  January 18 at 11:31 p.m.

  Hey there,

  So this site tells me we’re pretty compatible. In fact, it tells me you are among the top 5 women with whom I am most compatible on this site. I dig chicks who can rassle hogs, and I would like to think I’m probably smart enough to figure out how to make you laugh, too.

  There are a couple things I would like to know first, though. If you were a fruit, what fruit would you be? Also, if you could peruse my photos and profile, what fruit do you think I would be? Warning: I will weigh your answers seriously, so please do not make light of these questions.

  Talk soon,

  Brendan

  If a bit eccentric, at least he read my profile? Also, he’s a whopping six-foot-six and went to a good East Coast college.

  January 19 at 8:07 a.m.

  Hi Brendan,

  Your questions indeed carry much gravitas. After great consideration, I have come to the following conclusions:

  If I were a fruit, I’d be an orange. Like me, an orange has thick skin, promotes energy, and flourishes in sunny environments. I live in what is currently a snowy and gray metropolis, as opposed to a sun-rich orchard in Florida, but I think that last quality correlates with my sunny disposition. Maybe?

  Because this is a very probing question and we’ve never met, I don’t presume to understand your character well enough to ascribe it a fruity relative. But just so you don’t think I’m copping out, I am going to guess you are a stone fruit – let’s say a plum? This is based on the fact that plums have a hard pit and you seem like a tough nut to crack. How’d I do?

  Cheers,

  Alison

  January 19 at 11:03 p.m.

  Hi Alison,

  You’re right. That was a presumptuous question on my part. It’s a shame you don’t know me well enough to know that I am actually a kiwi. Shall we meet face-to-face and rectify that problem?

  Don’t feel badly about having gotten that wrong. It was a really tough question. I should have waited to ask it until our third date.

  Wednesday or Thursday night at La Lanterna di Vittorio in the West Village?

  Ci sarà perfetto?

  Brendan

  He’s already seated at a corner table, and he looks up when I walk in. I wave and walk toward him. His dimpled smile is engaging, and this date I can pick out based on his photos. A better start.

  “Allora! Dobbiamo condurre la data tutto in Italiano perché siamo in un caffè Italiano?”

  I can feel my face flushing, partly in terror because my Italian skills are so rusty, partly in terror because this level of “wit” (read: eccentricity) is a bit more than I had anticipated. “Umm.” I swallow and squint at the ceiling, trying to translate in my head. “Se vuole . . . ma . . . non preferisco farlo.”

  He looks at me blankly, pauses, and punches me on the shoulder as he starts to smile. “I have no idea what you said. But hey, look who speaks Italian! What other fancy skills do you have?”

  I am bewildered, and my cheeks must be so pink right now. “But you just . . .”

  He shrugs. “I just looked it up on my phone two minutes ago. I figured, you know, when in Rome . . .” He gestures to the ivy-draped ceiling and villa-like ambience. “But man, you totally kept your cool!”

  I smile, take off my coat, and try to remember how to relax.

  “So. Since you failed the fruit test, but you’re evidently an Italian connoisseur, can you educate me on something fruit-related . . . about Italy?”

  “Uhhhh . . .” I trail off, scratching the side of my neck in discomfort. But then, “Wait! I actually do have a story about fruit! In Italy!” I exclaim brightly, proud that I actually have something to contribute to this zany line of questioning.

  “Alright, orange peel, let’s hear it.” He lifts his coffee mug toward mine in a gesture of cheers.

  “So!” I clap my hands in spite of myself, pleased that I might not be bombing this awkward exchange after all. “One summer back in college I was working in Florence for a magazine . . . though I guess that’s . . . not the point of this story.” I pause to gather my thoughts. How am I going to explain this?

  “Anyway, we didn’t have Internet, and our television was an old-fashioned box, so the pickings were slim.” I pause. “Have you ever seen Italian game shows?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Well there was this one show—I forget the title, but—they had two contestants compete over trivia questions. And there was this panel of women all dressed up as fruits. Whenever a contestant answered a certain number of questions correctly, he could choose a fruit, music would come on, and the fruit would trot out and perform a striptease.” Brendan laughs audibly.

  I wave my hand. “I’m not done though! The best was when you had a male and female contestant going head-to-head: Every time the man answered a question right, he’d get super stoked. He was ready, he knew exactly which fruit he was picking. He’d cry out, ‘L’ananas! L’ananas!’ and this salsa-y music would come on, and the pineapple would do its striptease.” I mime peeling layers off
my shoulders. “And he’d be the happiest man on earth. But when the female contestant won, it was like she wanted to be anywhere but on that platform. She’d shake her head sullenly before saying in an exasperated tone, ‘Non mi interessa . . . la banana?’ It was,” I pause for effect, “nothing short of amazing.”

  “That. Is . . .” Brendan nods emphatically, “a way better story than I was expecting. Nicely done!”

  “Thank you,” I accept. “Now it’s your turn to tell me a story. About . . . produce? Or strippers?” Remembering my date with Matt, I quickly add, “But please not strippers.”

  “How was the kiwi?” my college friend, Jason, asks over happy hour wings and drinks at The Liberty in Midtown. “He’s not actually from New Zealand, is he?”

  “Nope. It was fun.”

  “Is he as charming or hil-a-rious as his emails?” he asks, throwing a New Zealand accent on “hilarious.”

  “Kind of?”

  “What’d you guys talk about on your date?”

  “Mmm,” I add another chicken bone to the slowly amassing pile. “He asked me to tell him about something fruit-related in Italy? It was a really weird question.”

  “You tell him about the stripper fruits?”

  “Yes!” I inadvertently slam my copper mug on the table. “How do you remember that? Gosh, it was so long ago.”

  Jason shrugs. “Did you act it out? Pretend to shed your banana peel?”

  “Oh no!” I bite my lip. “Am I that predictable?”

  “No. Just, you know how you sometimes have a mental snapshot of someone? I have this vague recollection—”

  “—Or not so vague recollection.”

  “—Of you animatedly describing that show to me when you came back from Florence. I don’t know. It was kind of cute,” Jason says. “You should probably consider reenacting stripper fruits on all your dates.”

  I ignore his comment.