Date Twenty: If It Fits

“You build things?” I ask.

“Yeah,” replies my future date.

“Like with your hands?” I am incredibly intrigued.

“With my hands,” he tells me.

I talk to William on the phone for an hour and a half before we meet. I try to avoid this with most of my dates because I don’t want us using up all of our material before we’re actually mano y mano. And I find that most people feel the same way. But somehow William and I start talking and the conversation doesn’t end. And that’s how I find out that William builds things. With his haaa-aaands.      

“Like what things?” I worry I might be coming off as annoying, but I am truly interested, and William seems to like talking about his work. William works for two very famous artists, managing the design and construction of their large-scale art installations. He also built a tree house in Massachusetts that you can actually live in. William grew up outside of Boston and went to a small liberal arts college like mine and lives in Eagle Rock, which is a burgeoning artistic neighborhood near my established artistic neighborhood. He’s funny and we make jokes about going out to eat at some horrible corporate establishment like Chili’s or Friday’s or Applebee’s. But then we realize we live in LA.

“Is there even an Applebee’s in LA?” William asks.

I laugh, “LA is too cool for Chili’s. There is a Grand Luxe though.”

“Would that work?”

I think about it, “Naw, not really, too upscale.”

Instead, we agree to go see a midnight showing of Cool as Ice, the early nineties film starring Vanilla himself. I spent the better part of my Freshman year in high school watching that film with my best friends at the time, memorizing every line and then repeating them back to each other ad nauseum through fits of adolescent laughter. So when William asks if I’d be interested, I tell him immediately, “I’m in,” because though it is only a movie, going to see a midnight show on a first date still feels slightly adventurous.

I am at Ivan’s house the other night for one of our bi-monthly game nights when my friend John, the man who initially introduced me to Jimmy Voltage, shows up. John finds my dating adventures hysterical and he is always asking for full reports on the men I have gone out with. “So have you begun to categorize them?” he questions me over our game of Cranium.

“How so?” I ask.

“Like are some a number four? Others a number twenty-seven? You know, like they do with Hanes T-shirts and boxers and shit.”

I think about it, and I fear I might be. There are definitely types that I can spot off the bat, and those fall into four categories:

1. We will be attracted to each other.

2. He will be attracted to me with no reciprocation.

3. I will be attracted to him with no reciprocation.

4. We will both fail at attraction mutually.

William and I fall into this last category. I walk into the restaurant and know this immediately. And I can see on his face that so does he. We are both relatively good-looking people, both educated and funny and kind, we both engage in arts and culture, and probably even know some of the same people, but the Williams of the world, and the Kristens of the world were not meant for each other. And I’ve never been able to figure out why until William starts talking about how much he hates Sandra Bullock. She’s an easy target but William takes her much more personally.

William is pretty laid back, so I am rather surprised by the venom in his eyes when he tells me, “I was watching her in an interview once, and just her voice. Oh my God, that voice. She is so fucking obnoxious. I kept wanting to turn the TV off but I hated her so much I just kept watching.”

Wow. And as I think about it, I realize that I am probably pretty darn close to a Sandra Bullock in his mind. My voice is too loud, my laugh too incessant, and my need to explain, divulge and carry on, annoying.

At Ivan’s house, John joked that the pie I am eating must be good because my mouth isn’t going, and when just a few minutes later, I tried to talk with a mouthful of that pie, I realized how right he is. Ivan’s other friend Ric was also at the party. Months ago, I went to brunch with Ric, Ivan and Ric’s two-year old son Nathan. I fell in love with Nathan instantly. And when halfway through the brunch, he slid his hand up my arm, looked me in the eye, and said “Mommy,” I was sold.

Ric is in an unhappy marriage, and started calling me his second wife. I let him because he’s hot. And sober. And with a full tattoo covering his back, kind of dangerous. I drew the line however when as we were walking down the Venice boardwalk, each holding one of Nathan’s hands, and swinging him into the air, Ric referred to me as Nathan’s second Mommy. I don’t know Ric’s wife, but I can promise, I would not want the father of my children assigning the title of “Mommy” to any other woman but me.

So when I walk into the party, and the first person I see is Ric, something in me lurches. Nathan is also there, but I try to keep my distance from both of them. Even when Ric pulls me into his lap, and I notice he’s not wearing his ring, I know it isn’t right and it isn’t good, and I’m done being interested in men who do these sorts of things. I make sure that I am not on Ric’s team for the board game, and sit across the table to give myself distance. That doesn’t stop Ric from sliding his hand across my shoulder blades when he walks behind my chair to go to the kitchen. And it doesn’t stop me from being a little wistful that I want a Nathan of my own, as I watch him quiet and observant as the adults laugh and act silly and coo in his direction.

“I fear that you are going to hate men by the end of this book.” John leans over while the other team argues about their Word Worm question.

“Really, John? God, I think it’s going to be quite the opposite.” And I do. I am beginning to see that attraction isn’t about the other person, it’s about ourselves. I don’t take William’s lack of interest personally. And I doubt he takes mine as that. We just know what we like, and as he waxes on about house music, and the clothing line he once did. And as I wax on about living in South Africa, and 1980s country music, it’s okay that we don’t find a common bond. We take up the time talking as two humans can and do.

But then I begin to wonder, what kind of fit am I looking for? Because if neither the artist (#20), the electrician (#6), the TV writer (#1), the medical technician (#4), the bar manager (#5) nor the tennis pro (#16) will do, what will? Should I go back and find me another intellectual Hollywood producer like Oliver, or a lovable fashionista like Mandla, or the goofball prince like Frenchie? Because though I might have loved them all, I am not sure if any of them fit either. That the illusions about what my life would have been like had I stayed with those men are actually delusions, just another silly fantasy I torture myself with as entertainment. Maybe we would have just ended up annoying each other like Sandra Bullock and William.

William and I finish dinner and though if I could have broken the second part of our date, I would have. In the end, I am really glad I didn’t. Because Cool as Ice has aged like a fine fucking wine. It is hysterical, and William and I laugh to the point of tears, talking incessantly on the drive back to my car about how awesome the movie was.

And I am truly grateful to William for taking me out. Because without that date, I don’t think either of us would have seen it. Because we’re both single and in our thirties and have things to do on Sunday. Also, he tells me how I can find furniture making classes in Los Angeles, and about wood working and joinery, and the best way to upholster a couch. And that alone was worth a Saturday night. So John is wrong to think I will hate men. Because I am learning an enormous amount from them. I am learning what I like, and what I don’t like. Who I should get closer to, and who I should stay the hell away from. And I am learning a lot from each man himself. What people do, how they live, what they like, and what they are looking for in this life. As I get out of William’s car, I know we not see each other again, but I don’t leave with any hard feelings.

“It was really nice to meet you, Kristen,” he smiles genuinely at me.

I quote Vanilla, “Sup, Sup,” as I leave to the sound of William’s laughter. Similarly, the next night, I say goodbye to Ric just as coolly. And I kneel down and give my true love, my little Nathan, a hug. He hugs back which is odd for Nathan. I think he respects the fact that I stayed away from his player Dad, but he’s only two, and I don’t think quite there yet in his observations. Earlier in the night, Ric remarked when I showed him the peach tart that I made, “How are you not married?” For a long time, I thought it was about me. That I was missing something. But I am beginning to think that’s it actually about them – that I am just going to have to go through a lot of different patterns before I find the one that fits.

Next Chapter Please