Normally, This Would Be Cause for Concern

by Danielle Fishel

  STAN: OK. [Crickets for about twenty seconds . . .] You should go to Tryst one night.

  I am officially dying. I get up to see what you were doing, and I hear that the shower is still running, so I go back to awkwardly entertain Stan.

  ME: So you drive in for work? That must be nice to not have to deal with the trains in the morning.

  You know, since he has three cars, two for “friends and family members.”

  STAN: No. I take the train. It’s like an hour and twenty minutes to drive here usually. Even at night sometimes.

  Danielle, this conversation is officially over. Where he lives in Brooklyn is a twenty-minute ride away, and I’m done talking to him.

  I told Julie that the only thing that surprised me was that he didn’t mention what nice weather New York was experiencing. I filled her in on the awkward encounter at work and about how we had nothing to talk about in person. She told me that I should give him one more opportunity while I was in town.

  The next day, Stan called me and wanted to make dinner plans. I told him which nights I was free, and he told me he would have to check with his mom to see when she could babysit his son. I commented on how lucky he was that his mom could watch his son so he didn’t need to worry about hiring a babysitter. He responded, “She’s the best. That’s the majority of the reason she asked us to move in here.” Uh, what?

  ME: Asked you to move in where? I thought she was living with you, not the other way around.

  STAN: Yeah, yeah, that is what I meant. I meant that she asked me to buy this particular house because then she could live here, too.

  ME: OK, because you kind of just made it sound like you live with your mother.

  STAN: It’s, like, both of our house.

  Apparently, I was “dating” a pathological liar. This “senior manager” with a corner office worked in a cubicle and lived with his mother. The worst part about it was that had he just been honest with me, I wouldn’t have blinked an eye. Sure, I would have preferred to date a twenty-eight-year-old man who had a place of his own, but he also had a young son. If Stan went through hard times and needed someone he trusted, like his mother, to help get his son to and from school and decided it made the most sense to move in with her, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. And I certainly couldn’t have cared less about a corner office versus a cubicle. But the combination of Stan’s lies and the fact that he incorrectly thought that I was the type of girl he needed to impress with phony material things was what turned me off for good. Men, lying to a woman you want to date is never a good idea, but there is also such a thing as too much honesty.

  After my experience with Stan, I was feeling pretty discouraged, so I decided to allow my mom to set me up with a very handsome guy who worked with my dad. I had met Mike (not his real name) at one of the company Christmas parties, and we got along well. My mom asked if she could give him my phone number, and I told her she could. What followed next was a series of wonderful text and email exchanges between Mike and me. He was funny, smart, sweet, and handsome, and he had a good job; on paper, he was perfect. My parents were having a barbecue that Saturday, and I thought it might be a relaxing way for us to get to know each other, since he already knew my parents. Via text, I invited Mike to the barbecue, and he agreed to come—with one caveat. He wanted to take me on a proper date first, on Friday night. I told him I thought that sounded like a great idea.

  When Friday night arrived, I realized that maybe this wasn’t the best plan. What if we didn’t have a good date? What if I decided we didn’t have any potential? I couldn’t exactly uninvite him to my parents’ barbecue—that would be humiliating. I reminded myself that I didn’t need to make a decision about our potential after the first date—it was OK just to go with the flow.

  I met Mike at his house before dinner. He opened the door, gave me a hug, and complimented me on how I looked—one brownie point for Mike. He asked if I would like a tour of his place. His house was clean and decorated fairly well for a bachelor—one more brownie point for Mike. When we got to his bedroom, he said, “This is where the magic happens.” Uh, gross—strike one for Mike.

  Mike had picked a very nice steakhouse by the beach for dinner, and I was starving. We sat down, and our waiter brought over the wine list. Mike said, “Oh, thank God. I am so nervous—I need a drink immediately.” He asked if I liked red wine, and I told him that I did, so he ordered a bottle. I started looking over the menu and asked Mike if he had any recommendations since this was one of his favorite restaurants and I had never been there.

  MIKE: Everything is pretty good. I’m too nervous to eat, so I’m just going to have a side salad.

  ME: You’re just going to eat a side salad ?

  MIKE: Yeah, normally, I would order a steak, but I’m just too nervous to eat.

  ME: OK, you’ve mentioned being nervous three times now. Why are you so nervous? I promise I’m not very scary.

  MIKE: I don’t know. After this wine, I’ll probably feel better.

  Now, call me crazy, but no one really wants to hear that her date needs to get intoxicated to make it through a meal with her. Strike two for Mike.

  Our waiter came back to take our order, and Mike did indeed order a side salad. Without apology, I ordered an adult person’s meal. Mike poured himself his third glass of wine while I was still on my first.

  MIKE: I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m kind of drunk now, so here goes. I told a few friends that we were going to be eating here, and I asked them to show up and pretend that it was a coincidence—because I was really nervous.

  ME: Uh, really? That seems a little weird, and I don’t know why you’re still so nervous, but OK.

  Strike freaking three for Mike. He managed to finish his side salad without throwing up, and his friends never did “surprise” us. Mike asked if I wanted to take a walk since he wasn’t quite ready to drive yet, and we left the restaurant. We walked around the beach for an hour, and his nerves seemed to have subsided. He was back to being the witty and sweet guy I had gotten to know via text and email, and I decided that before I made a judgment about him, I would see how the barbecue went the next day.

  I went over to my parents’ house early so I could fill my mom in on how our date had gone. She was very optimistic that he would be much less nervous now that we had already hung out one-on-one. I was hopeful that she was right.

  Mike arrived at my parents’ house right on time, which I appreciated, because as I already told you, I am a nerd about time management. He gave my mom and me a hug hello and went into the backyard to say hello to my dad, who was managing the barbecue. After he was out there with my dad for fifteen minutes and never once looked in my general direction, I decided to join them outside. Mike and my dad were discussing basketball, and I tried to include myself in the conversation, but Mike wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. I awkwardly stood next to him for a few minutes before heading back inside to see if my mom needed any help.

  ME: Mom, did you see that? He won’t even look at me.

  MOM: Maybe he’s nervous because he works with your dad and now he’s at our house?

  ME: Well, I guess that makes sense. Seriously, if this guy tells me he’s nervous one more time . . .

  After a couple of hours, Mike loosened up and we all had a good time. It came up in conversation that I was training for a half-marathon, and Mike perked up. He told me that he ran track in high school and running was one of his favorite things to do.

  MIKE: Want to go for a run on the beach with me tomorrow?

  ME: Well, I just started training, and I haven’t done more than five miles at a time yet. Plus, I get bad shin splints, so I’m not very fast. I wouldn’t be a good running partner for you.

  MIKE: That’s OK! We don’t need to run fast or far.

  ME: OK, let’s go for a run tomorrow.

  This had suddenly turned into a three-day date, and I wasn’t sure how I had gotten myself into this situation.

&nbs
p; The next day, I met Mike at his house before our run. We drove to his favorite part of the beach and stretched. We started running, and about a mile in, my shin splints started killing me. Mike was charging the mountain and running faster than I could ever dream of. He would run about a quarter of a mile ahead of me and then turn around and run back to me. This made me feel like a total loser, and I wasn’t sure what was so fun about running with another person when you weren’t anywhere near that person for half the time. Eventually, he got tired of my slow pace and started pushing on my lower back with his hand, urging me to run faster. It took everything in my power not to punch him in the face.

  When we had run what I perceived to be three miles (it felt like a hundred miles), I told him I was done. Basically, I didn’t want to play anymore, and I wanted to pack up my toys and leave. Mike asked if I wanted to get sushi for dinner, and I said that sounded nice.

  When we were on our way to the sushi place, Mike told me that a few of his friends were at a taco shack down the street and he wanted to stop in and see them for a few minutes. I was a sweaty, disgusting mess and didn’t feel like meeting anyone like that, but I didn’t want to rain on his parade just because I wasn’t at my most attractive.

  When we got to the bar, it was three P.M., and his friends were drunk—and shirtless. One of them was covered in stickers and insisted on putting stickers all over my arms, and another was wearing a foam NASA helmet for some unknown reason. Long story short, Mike thought this was hilarious and didn’t seem to be the least bit embarrassed about the fact that this was my first impression of them. After we hung out with them for about forty-five minutes, I told Mike I was getting hungry and we should go get sushi. I could tell he didn’t really want to leave, but I was already starting to regret agreeing to get dinner with him, and I just wanted to get home.

  Mike and I shared a semi-awkward dinner: neither of us really had too much to say, and I think we both realized we had not made a love connection.

  Our bill arrived, and I pulled out my wallet and offered to pay, saying, “You got dinner Friday night.”

  “OK,” Mike replied.

  I was floored. Not in a million years did I think that he would take me up on my offer to buy dinner. This date had been his idea from start to finish, and it was only our second date, technically. Well, we never went out again—too many strikes for Mike.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  I HEART YOU WITH ALL MY FART

  I met my husband, Tim Belusko, at the end of 2008. It was my second semester in college, and we were in the same English class. Tim wasn’t enrolled in the class, and he wasn’t even on the wait list. He was simply trying his luck at getting into the class by showing up and hoping there would be an open slot.

  This was a prerequisite English class, and on the first day, our teacher, Jim (great, Jim and Tim, this should be easy for you to follow; I’m going to make up a name for Jim—how about James? See how clever I am?), made it clear that he was a bit of a hard-ass (even though he encouraged us to call him Jim . . . er, James).

  With a student in every seat and fifteen more students standing along the wall hoping to add the class to their schedules, James told us that he was going to be tough on us. This class required loads of writing—good writing—and he predicted that by the end of the semester, only a fifth of us would be left sitting in the seats. The rest would have failed out or simply dropped the class because it was too difficult. I have to admit, even though I was strong in English and a decent writer, I was nervous. I wasn’t the only one, apparently. At least ten people got up from their seats and left the room, having decided they would try their luck next semester with an “easier” teacher. James was scary!

  We were in a fairly big classroom, and after James filled the previously empty seats with all of the students who were on the wait list, he still had two seats available. He told the seven remaining students who were trying to add the class that they could put their names into a hat and he would draw two names. Those two lucky students would win the remaining empty seats. The first name drawn was not Tim. The second name drawn was not Tim. But then something hilarious happened. The student whose name was drawn second had a look of sheer horror on his face. Suddenly, he said, “Nah, man. I don’t think I want to take this class with you.” Then he ran out. Literally ran out. I mean, James was scary, but he wasn’t wielding a machete or anything.

  James and the rest of the class laughed as that terrified kid charged out of the room like he had a case of explosive diarrhea. James half-jokingly asked if anyone else wanted to bolt before he drew yet another name for the last remaining seat. Truthfully, I thought we all did, but no one else had the guts. Plus, I was sitting in the back and didn’t want to trample the students in front of me, so I was actually kind of a hero for staying. I am still waiting for a few thank-you notes from students, for your information.

  James reached his hand into the hat and pulled out another name. Tim. The student standing right next to James said “Yes!” and pumped his fist like Tiger Woods. Hmm. That must be Tim, I thought to myself. I told you I are smart.

  Over the next few weeks in class, I developed a totally innocent yet completely creepy crush on this Tim fellow. He always sat in the front of the class, and I always sat in the back—in the only seat where I could still see his face. He was funny. He raised his hand to answer questions, and he always delivered the answers in a way that made the class chuckle. James seemed to like him, too. For about seven weeks, I never said a word to Tim, and he never said a word to me. Occasionally, he would glance back at me and we’d make eye contact, but then we’d both look off into the sky, pretending we were just thinking, and use our fingers to count, à la Superbad. This was extra-weird because we were in an English class and there was nothing to count.

  Tim was handsome and clearly worked out. He wore white T-shirts that were one size too small, and absolutely no one was complaining. OK, I don’t know what anyone else was thinking, but I wasn’t complaining, and since I’m a total narcissist, I’m going to assume everyone shared my thoughts. He also had the Mortal Kombat dragon tattooed on the back of his calf. Tattoos aren’t my thing, generally; I have two of my own that I already regret, so it’s not like a guy with tattoos automatically makes me quiver. But I thought his was sexy, and I particularly liked the back-of-the-calf placement. I made a mental note to mention it to him if I ever introduced myself. Then I made a mental note not to introduce myself, because tattoo stories are boring even when they’re of a cool video-game dragon. Finally, I made a mental note to stop taking stupid mental notes.

  One day, during a small break from this ridiculously long class, I overheard/eavesdropped Tim talking about how poorly he was doing in his math class. He hated math, he couldn’t understand his teacher, and he was worried that he wouldn’t pass the class. Then he’d be stuck taking the same class again next semester. He did not seem happy about this, naturally.

  I have always loved math, but when I went back to school at age twenty-seven, I hadn’t been in a math class for nearly ten years. I took my placement exams and placed between Algebra I and Algebra II. Because what I had retained since high school placed me directly between the two math classes, the school let me choose which one I wanted to be in. I chose Algebra I, because I was afraid I wouldn’t remember anything and spend my first semester in school failing math. No bueno. Clearly, my Spanish was still perfect, though.

  The easy math class was a good choice for me, because I kicked butt in it. Remember Dr. H, whom I mentioned earlier? She taught me Algebra I, and I got one hundred percent on my first test and maintained that grade the whole semester. Dr. H had set me up perfectly to do well in Algebra II, which I was excelling in at the time.

  When I heard Tim complaining about not passing, I spoke up. “What math are you in?” Immediately, I wondered why I was saying anything. What was I going to say if he was in some super-hard math class that I knew nothing about? Oh, cool.
I’m in Algebra. And what was I going to say if we were in the same math class? Oh, wow. Sucks you’re failing. I have a nearly perfect grade, so nee-ner nee-ner. There was no good answer to the question I asked, so why did I even open my mouth?

  Then Tim said, “Algebra Two. I know it shouldn’t be that hard, but I suck at math.”

  Thank God, neither one of us was very bright! “Well, I’m in the same class and doing really well. If you want, I can tutor you,” said the Danielle who apparently doesn’t think before she speaks and thinks nothing of randomly agreeing to tutor strangers while also having no prior experience tutoring anyone in anything.

  “Are you serious? That would be amazing. Let’s exchange numbers,” said the funny Tim with the hot dragon tattoo and too-small T-shirt.

  We exchanged numbers and walked back into class. I prayed he would never call me. How was I going to tutor someone? Where was I going to tutor someone? Why hadn’t I learned to keep this giant mouth closed yet?

  He called the next morning. I hadn’t saved his number in my phone, so I didn’t know who was calling but answered anyway. “Hey, Danielle? It’s Tim from English. I’m hoping you might have some time to tutor me between now and next week? I have a test and could really use the help before the exam.”

  Ah, crap. Here we go. “Hi! Sure. Sure. Um, I can do it this Thursday if that works for you? I can come to your house.”

  “No, no,” Tim said. “You’re doing me a favor, so I’ll come to you. What’s your address?”

  Don’t ask me why I didn’t think to meet in the school library, where sane people agree to tutor strangers, but I did not. I quickly saved his number in my phone under the name “Tim From English.”

  He arrived (on time!) at my house on Thursday evening. We sat at my dining-room table with homework, pencils, books, and binders splayed everywhere. He was eager to learn, and I was a surprisingly natural tutor, with the exception of asking “Does that make sense?” after everything I explained. Oh, and the other exception of my profuse sweating. I keep my house cold. Really cold. Like sixty-five degrees cold. But for some reason, I felt like it was three hundred degrees, and I couldn’t stop sweating. I kept saying, “Is it hot in here?” He looked at me like I was crazy, and I instantly knew he wished he had brought a sweater.