Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “He did what?”

  “Metal welding,” I announce. “Best. Date. Ever.”

  “You just said, ‘Longest. Date. Ever.’ Which was it?”

  “Well, that, too. It’s still ongoing. I have to shower and meet him for dinner. But yeah, he took me metal welding. I got to wear a leather apron, and giant leather gloves four sizes too big, and a face shield. Nothing says ‘sexy’ like a face shield on date three.”

  “So where are you off to next?”

  “The Plaza. He’s staying there for work this weekend.”

  “Are you having dinner at the Plaza?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t ask. He told me to dress nice-ish.”

  “Well, this should be an interesting night. Keep me posted.”

  “You know I will!” I sing as I head to my bedroom.

  I walk into the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, and Forrest is standing there in a sports coat, smiling, hands clasped at his waist, ready and waiting as if in a scene lifted from Some Kind of Wonderful or Sixteen Candles or any other John Hughes movie from the eighties.

  “Hey, way to clean up!” I say teasingly.

  “Way to clean up, you.”

  “So . . .”

  “So . . . dinner’s in thirty minutes, it will take us ten minutes to walk over there. If you don’t mind walking, that is.”

  “Of course, don’t be silly.”

  “So we’ve got ten minutes to kill. Do you want to come up and see my room?”

  I freeze. “Uhh . . . you mean, like, now?” I ask timidly.

  “Yeah, now. The elevator bank’s right here. They upgraded me to a suite. It’s . . . kind of amazing. Have you ever stayed here before?”

  “No. Uhhh,” I scratch at the left side of my neck. “I . . . uh . . .”

  “You made it through a whole day with me. In Brooklyn. And look, you’re still alive.” He smiles. “If I had anything deviant planned, I kind of missed my opportunity this afternoon, right?”

  “Uhh, right?” I smile. Wordlessly, I follow him to the elevator. He’s talking about the plaster moldings, “which I know you’re going to love,” and I’m internally panicking. It’s not that I don’t trust him. It’s not that I don’t trust myself. I just still haven’t figured out if I want to kiss him or not. And if I don’t want to, it’s going to be a lot more difficult to wave like Paul Pfeiffer and gracefully exit a hotel room. At the Plaza.

  We walk in, and it’s as if we’re swimming in decadence. Marble pilasters, marble columns. I can see into the marble bathroom, with its gilded claw-foot bathtub. A canopy over the headboard and two plush robes hanging on the door. And there, in the corner, an ice bucket with Veuve Clicquot’s easily recognizable yellow label. Crap.

  Forrest follows my eyes, which are fixed on the champagne. “Soooo. As you can see, I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of champagne up to the room. I figure we can have it after dinner. . . .” I can’t answer, because my vocal chords, along with the rest of me, are stunned.

  “We split what I think was a really delicious porterhouse at Smith & Wollensky, but I just couldn’t get my mind off those robes and that bottle of Veuve.”

  “So what’d you talk about at dinner?” Nicole asks.

  “I have no idea. I spent the whole time in hyperoverdrive-panic mode trying to figure out how I’d handle post-dinner activities. First I tried to plot an exit strategy. Then I tried to assess if I could step up and wear my ‘big kid jeans’ as you’d say”—I point to Cassie—“and go home with him without knowing if I’d be attracted to him.”

  Cassie looks at me hopefully.

  “I couldn’t.”

  Cassie frowns.

  “Uh-oh. What’d you do?” Nicole asks.

  “I panicked. I tried to give myself a decompressing pep talk in the bathroom at the restaurant. That failed, so I went back to the table, popped a Nyquil in front of him, and said I’d been battling a cold all week and was feeling wiped from our tremendously fun, activity-packed day.”

  “You actually took a Nyquil?”

  “I clearly was not thinking straight. I think I said something like, ‘I’ll be knocked out in, like, twenty minutes flat, but hopefully-I-can-make-it-off-the-subway-and-face-plant-onto-my-bed in that time.’”

  “Smooth.” Nicole laughs.

  “I just . . .” I throw my hands up in despair. “He’s so nice. And I felt like when I bailed on the hotel thing, I just watched him, crest falling, become, finally, crestfallen. UHHH,” I groan at the memory. “It was terrible.”

  “How’d he handle it?” Cassie asks. “I mean, your reaction totally makes sense.”

  “A little passive aggressive, but, I guess, better than it could have been? I mean, he was totally gentlemanly and whatever.”

  “How’d you say goodbye?” Nicole asks.

  “He walked me to the subway in this drawn-out, anger-tinged silence. I tried to hug him . . . but he dodged it.”

  Cassie sighs. “More wine?”

  “Hey Alison. It’s Forrest. Sorry I took awhile to call. Also, more importantly . . . I just want to say,” he breathes in deeply, “that I thought about it, and I totally get where things went wrong on Saturday. I guess . . . you took the champagne and the room to . . . mean something more . . . and I think I did mean it to . . . mean something more . . . but I wasn’t trying to rush things. I was just trying to make the night . . . perfect. And if you had just wanted to watch a movie and hang out with champagne, that would have been fine with me. The last thing I would have wanted to do was put pressure on you. And . . . I just wanted to get that out there. . . . Annnd, this is officially the longest voice mail ever. So, yeah. Okay. Bye.”

  “Ooh! Can I listen to it?” Nicole asks.

  I hesitate. “Can I just summarize it for you?”

  “Yeah, but why don’t you want me to listen to it?” She cocks her head, confused.

  “It’s not . . . that I don’t want you to listen to it. It’s that I’ll feel like a triply shitty person if I play it for you and then we sit around analyzing it. I was shitty enough to him already!”

  “First of all, aren’t we going to analyze it anyway? Second of all, you weren’t shitty to him. You didn’t take him for granted. Or blow him off—”

  “I did blow him off.”

  “But not in a way that’s flitty or bitchy. You blew him off at the end of the night because you felt uncomfortable. It’s not like just because he bought you champagne, you owe him anything. Certainly not a sleepover.”

  “I know,” I say softly. “But I feel like everything he did came from this deep well of amazingness: generosity, thoughtfulness . . . and I couldn’t . . . reciprocate in any meaningful way other than to stammer through a lot of ‘thank-yous.’” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “And I hurt him in the process.”

  “But that’s not your fault.”

  “But it can still suck. And make me feel bad.”

  Nicole nods. “If you could go back and relive Saturday all over again, what would you do differently?”

  “Nothing. That’s what’s bothering me. I don’t want to call him back because I don’t know what I could have done differently, and I don’t know how to move forward from here. . . . But I also feel like ghosting him at this point is the ultimate bitch move.”

  “So call him back.”

  “But then I’m, like, kicking a wounded puppy. I’d be all, ‘Hey Forrest. I think you’re wonderful. Like, really, wonderful. And I have a lot of fun with you, and you shower me with every kindness. . . . But when you pressurized the situation on Saturday night, I freaked out . . . and thought that I might be physically repulsed if you kissed me.’ I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say?” I whine.

  “Well don’t say that.” Nicole laughs. “And really? Repulsed? I thought you said he was cute.”

  “He is cute. But if you’re not ready, or, mentally stoked to be . . . physical with someone, then doesn’t it just feel gross when he kisses you good night? Like you’re just preten
ding to be into it but you actually feel like throwing up?”

  “Do you think Cassie has really found someone she’s deeply attracted to every single Saturday night? Or Ben has? Doubtful. Sometimes you just do it because you’re horny and it’ll be fun.”

  “Well, I don’t think I can force those feelings. Or fake them.”

  “Well. People can. And sometimes if you like someone’s personality, you do force it, and hope the attraction part develops later. But regardless of other people, he totally misread you and misread the situation.”

  “He’s trying, though. Right? He’s trying so hard, which is part of the problem. I don’t want to ignore his voice mail, because he’s being sweet. And trying to right the . . . awkward wrong. But I don’t want to call, because I have no idea what to say.”

  “Do you think if you saw him again, you could be . . . not completely awkward?”

  “No.” I massage my temples. “I feel like I’m viscerally so rattled by the Plaza and the Veuve, I doubt I could be normal or myself if I saw him again.”

  “You still have the voice mail?”

  I nod.

  “Then do that thing where you direct-dial into his voice mail and leave a message. Short and sweet.”

  “Hey, Forrest. Thanks for your message. That was thoughtful of you and . . . I appreciate it. I’m about to start a really busy period of work and work-travel, so I don’t know that I’ll get to see you again for a while. But I just wanted to say thanks. You’re really sweet.”

  WorldTraveler619: Kevin the Bowerbird

  February 16 at 9:35 p.m.

  So, I do not run (outside) and I’m a wimp in inclement weather. Is this gonna be a deal breaker? Anyways, we can meet friends on this site, right, even if we’re clearly not meant to be? Because either way, Time Out New York’s cover article is about the 100 dishes you must try in NYC and I’m going to need company.

  *But* I did read your profile and I find you very interesting . . . and we have an alma mater in common, so there’s that (did my PhD at Columbia). ;)

  The last really stupid thing I said in front of people was “My opinion on the matter is split 60/30.” My faulty addition had to be pointed out to me. FML. I don’t know why I told you that, but I thought it might break the ice. You know, self-deprecation is good for that.

  Talk later,

  Kevin

  February 17 at 6:55 a.m.

  Hi Kevin!

  I don’t know if you were kidding about the friend comment, but it’s probably only fair that I alert you that I actually have honed quite a skill for amassing friends via Match. My girlfriends keep telling me I’m going about this all wrong, since at the last party I threw, my guest list had two friends I made from Match, but zero dudes I was interested in dating. Oops.

  Man after my own heart, though, you’re into adventurous/inquisitive eating, too? I’m game to keep you company in your endeavor to sample those 100 dishes. In fact, I think that’s an excellent goal to put on the life to-do list. Apropos of that, what’s the best meal you’ve had in New York City? Weirdest?

  Cheers,

  Alison

  Our email topics run the gamut from his job (“I’m a scientist for a chemical research company”) to his dream vacation (“how cool to lasso cattle on a dude ranch!”) to questions—and responses—about the specific emulsifying agents I use to clean the murals at the Armory (“Get out! I use Pemulen TR-2 in my lab, too!”). And still, no date. But, we do have a phone date set up for the coming Sunday night. I feel transported back to middle school, looking forward to a phone call.

  “So what ever happened with your snowboarding lawyer?” Ben asks.

  “Ugh. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Ohhh,” he says gently, “that bad, eh?”

  “No, I’m just bummed about it.” I stroke my paddle through the brackish water of the lake behind my parents’ house in the Catskills. “He wasn’t a big fan of the Pants Speech, I guess. . . . A story as old as time.”

  “Huh,” Ben says. “That won’t be everyone, though.”

  “I know. I think I’m just not cut out for modern adult dating.”

  We row silently toward the edge of the lake.

  “How are you in general? Dating now, post-Dave?”

  “Okay, I guess. The snowboarding lawyer was kind of a . . . low point, but other than that it’s been fun? I like meeting new people, seeing new places.”

  “So who’s on your dating roster at the moment?”

  “A couple people. A banker who kind of looks like Dave . . . I’ve seen him a few times already. And I’ve been having a really long email exchange with a scientist who got his PhD from Columbia.” I continue rowing, then pause. “It’s kind of annoying, actually. It’s been over a month and is starting to feel like a time sink with no upside.”

  “Has he suggested specific dates yet and they just haven’t worked out?”

  “Nope. Just keeps writing cute, smart-sounding emails and never proposes anything concrete. We’re supposed to have a phone call on Sunday. In theory.” I stroke my oar through the water again.

  “Ah! Don’t do it!”

  “Wait. Why?” I ponder this for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be better to get all our thoughts out there in thirty minutes, in one fell swoop, rather than keep wasting precious hours at our computer screens, editing and reediting our emails?”

  “Meet in person. The Match phone call is like the kiss of death.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “No, it just is. Every time a girl wants to talk on the phone before meeting, we never actually wind up meeting afterward.”

  “Talk about time sink. But maybe they can just tell there’s no chemistry on the phone? So this way you both saved commute time, and you save drinks money?”

  “Yeah, but some of the conversations are good. Most of them are.” We row again, both contemplating this.

  “When you hang up the phone, do you still want to meet them?” I ask.

  “Yes. Otherwise why would I waste time on the phone with them?”

  “Right, so then . . . why do they stay on the phone with you?”

  “Preaching to the choir, Ali.”

  I put my oar in my lap and crane my neck so I can face him. “Why are people so weird?”

  “Hey! Alison? It’s Kevin.”

  “Kevin! Nice to finally put a . . . voice . . . to your name. And typeface.”

  “Is this a good time? How was your weekend in the Catskills?”

  “Yeah, now’s a good time. Catskills was fun! My brother and I canoed around mini ice floes in our winter coats for about half an hour, but then I got too cold and we had to come inside.”

  “Aww, bummer. Sorry.”

  Kevin tells me that after sticking around Morningside Heights for a few years after graduation, he just moved to Long Island City.

  “Long Island City’s the best!” I exclaim. “Are you in one of the modern-y high rises?”

  “So you know it! That’s us. Or at least a building a lot like ours.”

  “‘Us, ours’ . . . so you’ve got roommates?”

  “Yeah, one.” Is it wrong for me to judge a thirty-three-year-old for having roommates? Probably. “But this place, it’s a dream. The roof will be tons of fun as soon as it warms up a bit! We’ve got a fireplace—”

  “Okay, now I feel like you’re lying. Who gets both a roof-deck and a fireplace in New York?”

  “I know. I feel like we won the real-estate jackpot. At the risk of sounding deviant, I’d love to have you over for wine, s’mores, and some serious foot warming by the fire.”

  “Sure.” I wait. No invitation follows.

  He continues, “The place is super cozy, and decked out with a million and one souvenirs from my travels. I never had room for any of that stuff in my old place. All these relics just sat in boxes. Now it feels like my own mini-museum!”

  “What kinds of ‘relics’ have you amassed from your travels?”

  “Oh, random s
tuff. Masks from Papua New Guinea, a flat-weave rug from Jaipur, alabaster trinkets from Volterra. I’m your average bowerbird.”

  “Average what bird?”

  “Bowerbird. Didn’t you learn about these guys in high school biology?”

  “I might as well come clean now: I suck at science.”

  “But you play with chemicals all day!”

  “True. I have no idea why they trust me. . . . Buuuuut, bowerbirds?”

  “Right, so bowerbirds have these very funny mating rituals. To woo a ladybird he’s courting, a male bowerbird will go around accumulating tons of . . . schlock. Anything he can find. Buttons. Ribbons.”

  “Twigs and leaves?”

  “No, usually brighter, shinier, often man-made goods. Then he makes a nest out of them and presents it to the ladybird he’s macking on. Like, ‘Come with me, and this can all be yours.’”

  “And it works? This materialistic dating . . . mating ritual?”

  “Yeah. That’s why they’re famous. Bowerbirds. You should Google it.”

  “So . . . you’re festooning your apartment with relics, ribbons, and bells for the love of your life? When you find her?”

  “When I find her, yes. Speaking of relics, the Match photos of you on your job sites look terrific. Makes me think that every day on your job must be so much fun! What have you been up to lately, work-wise?” he inquires.

  We talk for two hours. Two hours.

  “So. Apparently I could talk to you forever,” I say, “but I’ve gotta get going. Laundry, cleaning, big Sunday night plans ahead.”

  “Cool. Yeah, I should get going, too. But it was great talking to you, Alison. Have a good week.”

  Wait. That’s it? “Have a good week?” “Great talking to you?” Ben was right! The Match.com telephone curse is an actual thing! What an infernal waste of time.

  GolfersTan0506: James Takes the Stairs

  “Promise you won’t get mad . . .” my mom’s voice trails off.

  “What did you do?” I groan as I mount the steps to the Armory Monday morning.

  “Well . . .”

  “Did you Facebook stalk him?” I made the mistake of showing my mom the profile of tonight’s date.