Thursday, July 3, 2014

More than a month after I began this whole online dating thing, in a turn of events that can only be described as improbable, if not downright alchemistical, I’m going on an actual date. It materialized out of little more than a series of messages and e-mails. The lack of agency in this sentence is intentional, too, rather than a poor play at veiled humility. We clicked, terrible puns and all, the stars aligned, and about the only thing I can lay claim to is the asking itself. But then again, I’m old-school in that regard, and I was always going to be the one to initiate.

I realized that for all the thought I’ve put into approaching leviathan-class matches, I’ve never really considered what I’d do, were I ever to meet one. She’s sharp. Better-educated. And pretty, because I’m shallow like that. “She’s at my level,” declared Cheshire when I showed her a pic, and I couldn’t have asked for more honest confirmation. I’m not even going to attempt to plan out the date, though, surprising as that may be.

That’s because I tried that once to ill effect. More accurately, I tried to plan out the conversation for a date, years and years ago, and I still cringe when I think about it. Went so far as to jot down a list of things to talk about, and boy did it show. Vowed right then and there to never again commit this communicative sin, in any context. Conversation just isn’t something you can orchestrate, and I’ve come to respect it as its own beast–its contours, its silences, its twists, its corners. I’m applying this same mindset to the date proper. My one goal? It’s admittedly modest: make it to date #2.