I feel like I'm nursing a hangover, the way I always do when a date goes wrong.
Yesterday, I had another of my interminable blind dates. Will I ever learn?
Anyway, I had seen his ad months and months ago, and written to him, with no response. His ad had no photo. It was not very long, but in a brief paragraph, he'd managed to say all the right things for me to get excited (namely a few literary references put in a well constructed way. This is like cat nip to me.
Anyway, I think I wrote to him three times (red flag anyone?) with no response. After almost giving up hope, amazingly, he finally responded.
We corresponded for a while. His emails were laconic. He never sent a picture. He never even told me a name. (red flag anyone?)
We met yesterday.
I knew only one thing, he was supposed to wear a red shirt. Awkwardly, (though I've done it before) I approached a complete stranger in a red shirt and introduced myself.
It was him (thank God. It's not always that simple, believe me.)
He turned out to be quite good looking.
He finally gave me his name. We sat and talked. Or I should say, he talked....and talked. I think he asked but two questions of me, both of which I think I gave the wrong answer to, since he gave a distinctively supercilious look to me for both.
I was as charming as I could be, but he was not having it.
It's interesting how people's insecurities manifest themselves differently. My insecurity comes out in self-effacement and sarcasm. His came out in over-compensation (devoid of any discernable sense of humor by the way).
So he went on and on about the antiques in his family home, about the family manse, about his double masters degrees, and his over educated friends, and his time living in New Haven and New York and L.A. and Aix-en- Provence and on and on and on.
As always I listened indulgently and asked questions.
He, however, was clearly not impressed by me. It wasn't awful; it was just not happening.
Of course, his lack of interest is perfectly all right with me (I mean, being around him was exhausting, and I really wasn't interested in him either. No sour grapes, I swear it's true), but, stupidly, there's still a nagging feeling of disappointment lingering. I don't understand how that happens.
It makes me mad at myself mostly for feeling this way, but rejection, whatever form it takes, always hurts somehow, I guess.