Hiding from my Date

At a company function in the summer of 2011, I met a girl. To be more specific, my buddy and next-door-desker Hank convinced me to join him for the breast cancer charity dragon boat races on the Burlington waterfront. This isn't so much about that day, so suffice it to say, Hank, this girl, and myself had lunch and generally hung out all day.

This was all right before my diagnosis in late August.

After my diagnosis, maybe because of it or possibly in spite of it, I sent her an email and asked her to dinner. She said yes, which I now see was a bigger positive than I realized, because an email shut-down would've been the easiest of her life.

I met her at The Daily Planet, my choice; I thought that seemed hip, fun. I got there, looked around and grabbed a seat at the bar for a beer. I ordered a Wolover's Oatmeal Stout (sign of the times, and duh) and was a few sips in when she arrived. I don't remember what night it was, but it must've been a weekday because we were immediately shown to a table. 

I grabbed my mostly-full pint glass and we made our way to the table. Let me tell you, from my current prospective, smoothly carrying a glass full of liquid is a marvel. At that moment, as I walked staring at the sloshing liquid, I first felt the pressure of hiding.

You see, I never even considered telling her of my recent diagnosis. I didn't even believe it myself, how could I tell her, a near-stranger. 

Without spillage I made it to the table and our first date began. I think it went pretty well. I don’t particularly remember what we talked about. There were a few of those awkward silences, but you'll have that. 

After we finished I offered to walk her home, as she had previously told me where she lived. She had driven. I was dumbstruck. When I lived downtown I never drove anywhere. I thought, Is she one of those people who won't walk across a parking lot?! and was judgingly bummed. I should have thought nothing: Young woman would rather not walk alone across town at night, is not a story. I had a little aww-shucks moment to myself, walked her the twenty feet to her car, and said goodnight. 

I didn't try to kiss her goodnight. I of course thought of it, but the moment didn't seem right and it didn't worry me; I had made it through the night without embarrassment, that was enough.

Soon after I asked her to meet me for a drink after work. We met at The Reservoir, down the street from my apartment in Waterbury. Around 5:30 on a weekday, it was pretty dead in the bar. We got beers and she asked if I wanted to play pool. Normally I would love this, and I had spent a lot of time on the pool table at the Monkey over the last few years, but now things were different. I had played some pool with friends the previous winter, and found that my skills had evaporated.

And so I was very nervous about it, but of course I said yes. How could I say no? 

I set up the table and told her she could break. That would've been the biggest giveaway, at least in my mind, that something wasn't right. I could just see myself winding up and missing the cue ball completely, or grazing it just enough to send it into a corner, missing the entire rack. 

Together we could've made one passable pool player in that she could physically hit the ball but didn't really know what she was doing, and I knew what I wanted to do, but couldn't physically do it. I somehow made it through, excelling at the short, touch shots while struggling mightily at anything across the table. Just like what had happened to my golf game. 

We quit after the one painfully long game. Maybe she sensed my need for mercy. Or maybe she didn't want to watch my pathetic, awkward game anymore. 

If I can step back for a minute: It killed me (still does) to struggle at those little athletic activities that you do around regular people. That is to say people who are not experts at whatever the activity. Things like golf or bowling or horseshoes or ping pong or volleyball or anything really. I always did well in those situations. I had recently won a ridiculous cantaloupe-sized rubber band ball trophy in a Law and Compliance Dept miniature golf tournament. I almost fell over several times picking the ball out of the hole. I remember going down on one knee several times. I believe I won by four strokes. Weak competition. Weak.

Back to our hero. I mean fool. I don't remember much about what happened after that. I think she was on her way soon after. A quick drink after work didn't turn into anything more. Except plans for another night. Dinner at my place, oh boy.

Dinner at my place oh man what should I make? What does she like? I don't know. I make a mean mac & cheese, I know she'd like that. This is where the stupid, self-destructive Natty takes over. I could have bought the groceries the day before, two or three days before, but I didn't. I waited until the last minute and though I emailed her a heads up that I had to stop at Shaw's, I still made her wait in her car in my driveway. Smooth.

I grabbed my grocery bags and led her up the stairs to my door. I took them two at a time as I always did at that time. Forever I had been one of those people who ran up and down stairs, but I had adjusted to a railing-assisted two-stair approach on the way up. This is what was going through my mind.

I put the groceries on the counter, welcomed her to my apartment and excused myself to change out of my work clothes. I wasn't always one to immediately shed my shirt and tie for jeans and a hoodie, in fact I enjoyed wearing my work clothes out in the world. But I was all sweaty, also a new phenomenon after a day of sitting on my ass, so I applied a fresh coat of deodorant and changed my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear. Yes, I think I even changed my underwear.  

I reappeared in jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt because I was both cold and sweaty. So there she was in her sexy accountant outfit (trust me) and suddenly her date is dressed like a slob. It didn't really occur to me.

As I started to get everything together for dinner, I asked her to help me out by opening a bottle of wine. Quickly and expertly she had the cork out and had poured two glasses. I didn't ask her because I was busy with dinner. Having not recently used a corkscrew, I didn't know how it would go. In the years to come I would learn to hold the bottle steady between my knees for the uncorking. 

As soon as I put the groceries on the counter, mac & cheese stuff, bread, salad fixings, and the aforementioned wine, she asked and helped herself to a few hunks of bread. I was a little annoyed that she couldn't wait for my glorious meal, but she was "starving". I know I haven't given her a name, needn't worry, she has one. 

I got the mac & cheese going, which always seems to take longer than I expect. We talked about who knows what as I gave the necessary (constant) attention to my milk/roux. Needless to say I eventually finished preparing the meal and we ate off plates on my (legendary) blue couch. 

We ate quickly and before I knew it we were in post-meal couch conversation. One thing I didn't do, in that moment or all of the ones since we had met, was compliment her. I never uttered so much as "You look nice." As we sat on the couch and she could see that I was no closer to showing her anything resembling affection, she moved the conversation to tattoos, giving her the opportunity to show me hers. I don't remember exactly what it was, a math symbol or something decidedly dorky. I believe I actually called it dorky. Had she a hammer in her pocket she could've stood up, bashed me on the head and yelled, "That's not the point you thick-headed moron!" 

And it wasn't. The tattoo was on her side under her bra strap. She in effect showed me her bra and still I sat paralyzed. By nerves, by fear, preoccupied with hiding the fraud that I was. I wouldn't have to hide much longer, she soon made an excuse and ran out of there. I half expected a kiss at the door, what an idiot.

I never saw her again, at least not for more than a second in the hallway. I never had the chance to explain. No, I am not repulsed by you. I couldn't let you in.