Has Anyone Seen My Pants? (16 page)

More complete silence.

“Philip?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, just making sure you were there. You know. You just weren’t talking . . .”

“I’m here.”

More complete silence.

“Okay, well, you said you wanted to talk so . . .”

“Yeah. I figured we should talk before we meet this week.”

A whole sentence! Hallelujah!

“Yeah, great. So, what’s up?” I asked again.

“Not much.”

Dead silence. The rest of the conversation went exactly this way: with me rummaging up questions and him giving one-word answers. I felt like I was being pranked. Finally, I decided I had to either get off the phone or throw it against a wall.

“So I should get going,” I said after having a ten-minute one-sided conversation.

“When do you want to meet?” Philip asked.

“I can meet Wednesday or Thursday,” I offered.

“That works. Is ten thirty good?”

“Ten thirty p.m.?” I asked. I knew the answer was yes but it sounded kind of late to meet for a first date. I realize I’m not the most traditional-seeming person in the world, but if I’m trying to actually find someone, we can meet at
eight o’clock like normal people. Plus, I’ve seen
The Craigslist Killer
on Lifetime. I’m no fool. “That’s kind of late for me,” I told him.

“Well, I go see shows and I’m not done until then.”

“Shows?”

“Yeah, live music.”

“Oh, then we can do another night if you already have tickets those nights.”

“No, I do it every night. I don’t have tickets. I just look up local places and pick where I want to go.”

“Do you do that for work? Are you like a music agent or something?”

“No.”

More silence.

“Okay, so you just go . . . ?”

“Because I like live music. It’s my thing. I go seven nights a week unless I’m doing an open mic.”

“Ohhhh, you’re a musician?” I asked, kind of interested.

“No.”

Silence.

“Philip?”

“Yes?”

“What do you do, Philip?” I said, trying not to sound annoyed.
Is this guy on the spectrum or what?

“Oh. The open mics? I’m a comedian. Well, trying to be, anyway.”

FML.

“Okay, cool. So I’m not sure about this week since you need to meet so late and I have a long week. Maybe next week or something,” I threw out, knowing I was never going to meet him but really wanting to get off the phone.

“Okay.”

Silence.

“Okay, bye, Philip,” I said as fast as possible, then hung up.

I called Tilley immediately after and told her all about my horrible, dead-end conversation with Philip.

“So basically, he goes and watches live music every night of the week like some sort of annoying hipster, which is not something I’m into and not a sign of someone who is very productive in their daily life,” I explained.

“Yeah, that’s not great,” she admitted.

“Oh, and he’s an aspiring comedian. I can’t go out with him. I’ve tried that and it’s always a disaster!”

“Okay, I will admit that he doesn’t sound like the one or anything, but maybe you should just meet him—”

“No way. Please don’t make me! This would never work. He didn’t even speak. It was torture! Plus, I can’t date an aspiring comedian,” I whined.

“Okay, you don’t have to go out with him. But you should tell him. I think honesty is good and it’ll help you meet the right kind of guy.”

“Fair enough. But I can text him, right? I can’t go through another conversation like that.”

“Yes. Text him.”

The next day, Philip texted me to let me know that his Friday night had just opened up so he could also meet at ten thirty that night, if a weekend night was better for me.

I would never waste a Friday night when I’m actually in town on a first date. Never.
Well, maybe for George Clooney.

I decided to write him back immediately to let him know that we were no longer going on a date and that he should continue his online pursuit of other women. I didn’t see the point in wasting his time—I was being considerate of his super-busy live-music barhopping schedule . . .

“Sorry, after we got off the phone I thought about it and I don’t think we are a good match. I’m not much into the nightly music scene and I’m actually a comedian as well. I’m hoping to find someone in a different field of work than I’m in. Hope that makes sense.”

Seconds later, I received his response: “Okay.”

Ah, classic Philip.

Tilley had a couple more guys in the works from whatever website she had signed me up for, but she was determined to explore other options, so at one point she had me on the phone (this was the most I’d talked on the phone in years) with a matchmaking agency. The woman I spoke to seemed very together and very invested in finding the right guy for me. When I told her about my brief experience with Philip, she scoffed at the foibles of online dating and assured me that I wouldn’t have to deal with any of that nonsense if I signed on with her. She and her “team” would sit down with me person
ally and really get to know me and what it is I’m looking for in a partner. And then they would sit down with all of the men they thought would be right for me, filter out the ones who didn’t fit my every need, and introduce me to the ones who did. It sounded amazing. The way this lady was talking, I’d be riding off into the sunset with my true love in no time.

“This sounds perfect!” I told her excitedly toward the end of our call. “So what do I do next?”

“Well, you just need to come in and meet with us, fill out some paperwork, pay our annual fee of fifteen thousand dollars, and we will get to work!”

“Um, did you just say fifteen
thousand
dollars?”

“Yes. It might sound steep but if you really are invested in finding—”

“I’m not. Bye!” I said cheerily as I hung up the phone. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I knew if I let her go on too long she’d talk me into it by setting up some sort of payment plan or something because I’d guilt myself into believing that if I really wanted to find someone, this was the only way. As promised, I immediately called Tilley to tell her how that call went.

“Well?” she asked excitedly. “Was she as awesome as she says she is?”

“She seems pretty awesome, yes,” I admitted.

“Great. So you’re going to do this, right?”

“She charges fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Oh, fuck that!” Tilley said, horrified.

I was so relieved. I was kind of afraid Tilley would also
think I needed to “invest in my future,” which would involve dipping into my retirement savings . . . but my retirement savings
is
me investing in my future, so that would be like cutting off my nose to spite my vagina.

“Oh my God, I’m so glad you agree! I wasn’t sure if you would think I should do it,” I admitted.

“Are you insane? I thought it would be like fifteen
hundred
or something. I’ll look into other agencies. Can you go to a social mixer at a museum next weekend? I found it on this singles website. I’ll go with you.”

“That sounds awful,” I told her.

“I told you to do what I say. And they’re serving wine.”

She really knew how to get to me.

“Okay, fine, I’ll go.”

“Good girl.”

“Wait! I have shows in Jacksonville that weekend! I can’t go!” I said excitedly. I’d never been so thrilled to be going to Jacksonville—I don’t think anybody ever has.

“God, you really are out of town all the time. No wonder you can’t meet anybody.”

“I can’t believe you just admitted that! Finally.”

“I’m not admitting shit. I’m just saying your schedule is challenging, but I love a good challenge.”

“Clearly,” I laughed.
The Advisor doesn’t fuck around.

“Okay, one more thing: I have another guy from online. I—well, you—asked this one what he does for a living so we wouldn’t have another comedian situation. He’s an editor—
edits commercials or something like that—but it sounds like he works a lot and has his shit together. You’re going to meet him for drinks this week.”

“Okay, that sounds . . . better,” I said cautiously. I was still having a hard time getting excited about meeting strangers. It seemed so daunting.

“It’s going to be your first date in, like, three years, so perk up.”

“I’m perky. All perked. Can’t wait.”

“He knows what you do for a living because he asked me—well, you—after I asked him—well, you asked him—what he does.”

“This is very confusing,” I told her.

“I know. I’ve learned a lot, though. Like I learned that telling people I’m not really you right off the bat is not a good idea.”

“Wait, what? What happened?” I asked, laughing.

“Well, with a few of the guys who seemed really awesome, I thought that being honest might be a good way to go, so I told them that I wasn’t really you but that I was a good friend of yours and I was helping you find the right guy because you’re too busy to do it yourself . . .”

“And that didn’t go over so great?”

“No, not at all,” she continued, laughing. “They got creeped out. One of them wrote back that he wasn’t really into talking to someone’s friend. Another one just never wrote back. And the other one asked me for a picture of myself . . . naked.”

“Oh my God,” I said, tearing up from laughing, “that’s amazing.”

“I know.”

We got off the phone shortly after, but not before she reminded me that I had a date that week with a guy named Robert and that he’d be texting me later that day to set up the when and the where.

When I got the text, I responded, “Wednesday night would be great for me. Does that work for you?”

“That’s perfect! Does eight o’clock work?”

Yay! A normal first-date time.
“That works great.”

“Awesome. Do you know El Carmen on Third Street? Great margaritas, good ambience,” he responded.

I love El Carmen! I love margaritas!
I thought. “I love El Carmen! I love margaritas,” I wrote back.

“Ha, me too. Okay see you then.”

“See you then!”

Okay, this was going a little better. He picked a great place to meet: El Carmen is a quiet, semidark little restaurant with a great bar—the perfect place to sit and talk while having a nice stiff drink to take the edge off the fact that you’re meeting someone for the first time. Also, he didn’t try to make me talk to him on the phone. He took care of business and then ended the texting, so we didn’t have to continue on with some awkward “So what’s up?” texts to each other.

Tilley was happy to hear that it sounded like her second attempt at sending me on a date was going a little more smoothly.

“Just don’t have sex with him,” she said very seriously.

“We’re meeting at El Carmen for a margarita! How did you go to sex from that?”

“I’ve had their margaritas.”

“Solid point. But he lives in Santa Monica and I live in Studio City. We’re meeting in neutral territory, like twenty minutes from either of our houses. I wouldn’t drive twenty minutes for sex with someone I just met.”

Wednesday night came and I headed over to El Carmen to meet up with Robert. I wasn’t dreading it as much as I thought I would. I’m even willing to admit that I was a little excited. Tilley had sent me the photos from his profile page, so I spotted him right away when I walked in. The real-life version of Robert resembled the profile pictures of Robert, except that he was much thinner and nerdier in person. He was cute; he just wasn’t as ruggedly handsome as his profile photos suggested. I suspect those photos were taken a few years prior to that evening, but it didn’t really bother me much. You sort of expect that from people now that Instagram filters give people digital tans and face-lifts.

“Robert?” I asked as I approached real-life Robert.

“Hey, Sarah,” he said as he turned around to greet me. “Wow. You’re even prettier in person.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, blushing. Then I realized I didn’t even know what pictures of me Tilley had posted on my profile page. She must have used one that was just okay, so that I wouldn’t disappoint anyone in person; that seemed like the sort of crazy strategy The Advisor would come up with.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Robert said as he offered the stool next to him.

I saw the bartender look up and blushed again. I instantly remembered how many times during my seventy-seven years of bartending I’d heard people meet for the first time in what was clearly an online date. I always made fun of them a little in my head. And now here I was, thirty-nine years old, having a bartender do the exact same thing to me. Oh, karma.

We both ordered margaritas and started the usual first-date banter. Talking about what we do for a living, where we’re from, how long we’ve lived where we live now, blah blah blah. It was painless for the most part, once the initial awkwardness began to fade. The strong drink helped.

As we moved on to our second round of drinks, the conversation shifted to dating. Robert asked me how long I’d been on Match.com.

So that’s the website I’m on,
I thought. “Not long,” I admitted. “This is actually the first date I’ve gone on from it.”

“Oh, wow,” he laughed.

“How long have you been on it?” I asked.

“Oh, years,” he said nonchalantly.

“Years?”
I repeated, not sure I’d heard him correctly.

“Yeah, years. Like five years or so? It really works.”

I wasn’t quite sure I was following his logic. If he had been on this dating website for five years and was still going on first dates, I don’t think it “really works”—unless he just really loved going on first dates.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, trying to figure out what his deal was without stating the obvious: that it wasn’t really working for him.

“Well, I’ve been in three long-term relationships with people I’ve met on Match,” he said proudly.

“Oh, that’s . . . cool,” I said, still not quite sure how he figured this was a success—unless he just really loves long-term relationships that eventually end.

“Yeah. I was with one girl for eight months, one girl for nine months, and my last girlfriend from Match and I moved in together after a couple of months and were together for ten.”