Boy 12: Shidduch

So what is shidduch, you ask?

It is an arranged Jewish marriage.

Obviously this was not a shidduch date, but there was something shtetl-y about it. You have a very Jewish name, and so do I. We have had to reschedule many times due to our various commitments and Passover plans.

You are a novelist. So you are googleable.

I read your writing, and it is excellent. Excellent to the point of intimidation. I am suddenly wondering about my intellectual credentials… can I hack it? We text, but I think because we both use words in our art, we write cautiously, maybe even suspiciously and with wide open spaces. But the chemistry, albeit digital, is pretty immediate.

We both hate raisins in anything–fuck oatmeal raisin cookies, really fuck them–and we both have sordid histories with the chosen people. You are fascinated by my name (which I can’t disclose here) which let’s just say, if you speak Yiddish, is a deeply classical and tribal name amongst Yids. We talk a little about our process and promotion, and I use my usual quip…

“Well, I start with a neurotic lazzo, and then I settle: if I could explain my play to you in two sentences, why should you stay for ninety minutes?”

You say then that you have never heard anyone use the word “lazzo” before.

Match point.

You ask me to dinner.

I can’t make it, obviously, ’cause I’m busy that night.

So, weeks later, punctuated by occasional check-ins, we meet. We’ve bantered about what makes a pastry a pastry, my somewhat famous colleagues on the road while I travel for work, parents who hoard and steal food and flatware, and whether or not the Holocaust can or should dominate Jewish art.

We walk in almost at the exact same time to a s’mores bar that you chose. You order dinner, so I do, too. You get a drink, and so do I. We also got dessert.

We talk about many things…

Your book (which you fully explain, and I love it). Your family. The fact that you have set a Jewish filter on Hinge (which I poke at as being somewhat racist, and you admit to having seen non-Jews). My career (which you have googled and ask me outright that I do seem “successful” but am I really? And I respond outright that this a preposterous question that you would only feel comfortable asking an artist but that yes, I am happy, and that you are in trouble for asking). Your siblings. My siblings. My dealbreaker (see Boy 9). Destiny. Randomness. Falling out with God. Long random story about my brother-in-law and your friend Anna at work whom you flustered. Bilingualism. My food phobias (which are intense and intricate). Your insistence that writing is, indeed, ephemeral when I explain that I prefer it to the other art I make that is less so. My counterpoint that you only think so because you haven’t experienced interpretive arts.

You’re softer than you are via text. You know how to live in the romantic spaces between words when you’re writing, but in the flesh, you’re clearer. Still playing the game but with skin.

I make you laugh several times. You’re very beautiful when you laugh.

You also told me a family secret. That was fun.

We almost get into my relationship history which I swat away–I say, nope, I don’t want to talk about that right now. You like that I do that.

I wonder, Boy 12, are you like me? Do I come off like you? You’re a little slippery in your loveliness. I feel like creators are constantly flipping a coin of narcissism and self-loathing… I like you, but I suspect you… and I’m not sure of what exactly. And I wonder if you’re feeling the same strange thing?

Towards the very end when I go to get the check, you say, “I think I’ve met you before.”

I say I doubt it. And you clarify, no, no, not like properly. Just briefly, somehow.

Hmm.

I’m leaving for a work trip for ten days, and it’s drizzling outside. You’re going right, and I’m going left, I say. You button your coat, and you open your umbrella, and you confirm that I’m gone till May? And then say let’s do this again?

It takes all of my energy to do what I do next.

I shrug, and I say, “Sure.”

I turn around and start walking.

That was hard, guys. Pretending to be cool… very hard.

So, thank you:

For not texting too much.
For actually following through on a date weeks later.
For sharing your art with me.
For some Jewish commiseration.
For just doing you. Even when that you is a little arrogant. Or maybe I’m just craving your fears right now.

Boy 12, there’s something fated here? I know that sounds weird to say, but it’s genuinely how I felt. And I also felt like I might never see you again. It’s hard to know the difference. Desire and dismissal are tricky twins sometimes.

UPDATE: You text me the next day. You had a lot of fun you say. We have texted in the meanwhile, and the fields are vast and open. Let’s see what happens when I get back. This romantic flower, if it blooms, is an orchid. Minimal, persistent, sexy. Tall and thoughtful. Maybe a little full of itself. Orchids seem to know that they’re orchids.

Boy 11: Force Meet Cute

It kept getting rescheduled.

It’s always ephemeral and sometimes uncomfortable, and I don’t always know why. I can’t pinpoint why some delays in logistics are sexy and others are simply sitting on the tarmac in frustration wondering why you decided to fly anywhere in the first place… ’cause wherever you go, there you are.

We chat. You are a filmmaker. You are also a teacher. You look slightly out of type for me, but I am open-minded. You encourage me to watch some David Lynch. I am reluctant… I don’t do spooky well.

But you were persistent, Boy 11.

At one point, I had to reschedule for a Shakespeare-work-related conflict, and you insisted that it would be a lovely “meet-cute” if you accompanied me. I considered this briefly and then felt slightly affronted by your (clearly well-meaning but not considered and accidentally diminishing) invitation into my professional life. I declined. We then rescheduled twice more.

It is sort of coming to light that you are sort of an artist. Not via my judgment but via yours. You claim that you are in generative phases and acknowledge that you have yet to hit upon a breakthrough in your work. I admire and appreciate your honesty.

Our date finally happens after rescheduling thrice. We settle on a cafe in New York that has multiple locations.

We accidentally go to different locations of the same cafe.

What a meet-cute you reiterate this is as you head over to my location.

We talk. You smile a lot. I enjoy the conversation though I feel a little like you are planting seeds, and I am making leaf rubbings.

You walk me to the subway and say you’d like to see me again if I’m not too busy.

I feel kind of awful? I had a feeling before this date that we were not going to hit it off but that you wanted us to. I don’t know why exactly; you must have projected something upon me that was deeply desirable to you because we can’t pretend you knew anything real about me. Was it my responsibility to cancel the date because I wasn’t feeling it? On the contrary, I felt like it was my responsibility to follow through on the date so that my instinct could be physically manifested and justified? What if you’d bowled me over? That has happened. See Boy 4 and Boy 10.

But it didn’t.

It felt like a meet-finagled-and-forced. Though you’re plenty cute and sweet.

So, I want to thank you:

I’ll watch some David Lynch. You’re not the first to recommend it, and maybe I need some guts.
You’re straightforward. You wanted to meet, and you pursued the meeting. You wanted to meet again, and you said so. I was not as bold and am not as bold, and I admire that.
You’re clearly a romantic… that’s lovely. Don’t let me hinder your heart.

Boy 11, I might want to collaborate with you someday.

UPDATE: I text you a passage on writing that I promised I would during the date. You write back saying it’s “spot on.”

Boy 10: Renewed (Artist) Card

Boy 10, you are also an artist.

This is tough. I am suspicious.

You clicked me–you didn’t engage with the traditional Harry Potter icebreaker. You went with The West Wing. I think maybe that’s how you caught me off-guard ’cause I’m actively trying to avoid artists. It’s not a dealbreaker; it’s just a preference.

I insist that if we are both artists we must know each other. I do some stalking, and we do have a few friends in common, but the connections are pretty peripheral. You say you’ve never (to your knowledge lol) dated or slept with an artist… I drop my number like a true traitor to my kind.

I ask you to send me some of your work… am I the only person who can’t imagine getting involved with someone whose work I don’t respect? I like your work. I tell you so! Several Passover/Easter and musical jokes later… we settle on a date and time.

I’m a big fan of CAPS LOCK in my texting persona. I think it pretty accurately reflects my general exuberance. You are also only the second person I’ve encountered digitally who uses what I call the Emily Dickinson Capital Letters for Emphasis–not all the time, but strategically and well. It’s sexy.

And, here, Dear Readers, is The Sexiest Part: because we are both artists, we were able to meet up during the day! We decided on a stroll in Washington Square Park ’cause it turns out neither of us drinks coffee.

It gets better.

You say that you have to return your library books at some point. Would I be interested in accompanying you? Boy, would I. We stroll to the library and talk about what you just read. Turns out we went to a branch that is closed for renovation. You realize you knew that and lead us to another branch. A man who knows not one, but two, local library branches. Be Still, My Heart.

I ask you about your work. It’s shorter form. You ask me about mine. It’s longer form. We talk about identity politics in art… is an artist meant to work with what they know? With their own experiences? Or is there something to the outsider looking in? Providing a new perspective with aesthetic distance? In fact, you are very interested in writing about people you virulently disagree with. While processing your own privilege.

I tell you about some young aspiring artists I know who ask me for coffee and advice. I am reluctant to provide it (imposter syndrome), but I wish someone had provided me with guidance of any kind… so I do. And one young actor asked me once: “Isn’t it easier for female actors because they have their beauty?” And I took him to town. No, no, it’s not. In fact, the attention paid to their beauty (which is inherently fleeting) is a huge and horrible bottleneck in the industry that prioritizes and fetishizes women’s bone structures instead of their abilities.

You agree.

But you also provide a caveat; you say, “Maybe he was trying to compliment you on your aesthetics in a roundabout way.” Boy 10, are you complimenting my aesthetics in a roundabout way?

You walk me all the way to work.

I want to thank you:

You assured me that you’re not one to hold grudges, so should we ever encounter each other artistically, it’s ok. This is sweet, transparent and kind.
You’re a real creator. You inhale and surround yourself with literature and inspiration. You exhale and make work that you’re proud of and that reflects the questions you have about the world.
I renewed my library card while you returned your books. So productive.
You can meet during the day. Not a small deal. You, like me, do not have to stay on Muggle 9-5 hours. We are the magic makers with dumb/awesome schedules. Oh, that reminds me… Ode by Arthur O’Shaughnessy… Bolding mine. Not the author’s.

“We are the music makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams; —
World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
   Of the world for ever, it seems.”

Boy 10, goddamnit. I would totally go on another date with you. Yeesh. Artists, amirite?

UPDATE: You text me that afternoon to let me know that “despite or maybe because of” our artistic professions, you had a great time. We should meet again. Second date scheduled.

Boy 9: Troll

You’re an economist, and you win most texting.

Thousands sent, EASILY, thousands,before we actually met. Probably because I was bored on a plane, and you were bored… ’cause that’s your default state? But no spoilers.

It’s not surprising that I thought you might be a troll.

The theme of our texting was basically… disappointment. How disappointing it’s going to be to actually meet in person. It’s funny in a morbid kind of way. Endearing nihilism… turns out you’ve been online dating for five years. I am easily fascinated… who is this internet veteran? An excellent date or a horrifying dud?

Lots of meta-Hinging about horrible dates, Jewish jokes, innuendo… Banter: high. Substance: low. I guess I did figure out that you’re bilingual like me. That’s sexy.

We settle on a date for when I return from work that’s post-Passover Seder.

Even after logistics have been confirmed, the texting continues. Selfies… sarcasm. What’s the best way to disappoint each other, hmmm?

Somewhere in this conversation, I drop the fact that I have a new dealbreaker. I will not get emotionally/sexually involved (in any capacity) with a guy who hasn’t told someone that they love them romantically. Everything else I can wrap my head around, but at this point, if you haven’t loved someone and differentiated that personal maze for yourself, then I’m not going to provide you with a training ground. And I want you to recognize your own limitations and preferences within our dynamic/relationship and whether it’s casual or serious or anything in between.

You assure me that you were with someone for a year…***

After many pithy little comments about how it might be better not to meet and preserve what we have projected on each other, we finally meet. At one of my favorite bars in NYC: ArtBar.

Boy 9, you basically look like your picture. Not quite. B+.

I ask you questions about your job. You answer them. You seem to care about it. You work on economic proposals for an environmentally-conscious firm. But you work remotely which means you work and live alone… somehow jokes about oral sex get made and that you give it poorly. Or not at all. Yellow flag.

You ask me about my work. I answer a bit. We get derailed with peripheral and tangential jokes…

Interesting thing about you, Boy 9. The excessive texting did actually reflect you well. Banter: high. Substance: low. In person and via text.

But let’s get back to disappointment. We had discussed many things, including but not limited to the fact that you tend to kiss on first dates, and 8/8 of boys texted me after the first date but did not kiss me! So, I was expecting you to kiss me if I didn’t “disappoint.” Am I crazy?

You don’t kiss me! But you do walk me all the way across town instead of taking the subway.

I get on the bus. Text me, I say.

I want to thank you:

You’re weird. I haven’t really met any truly strange birds. I like that you put yourself out there.
You’re a fascinating manifestation of online dating culture–you’ve been on the apps for years–and the way it reflects the deep loneliness many professions can cultivate. Troll isn’t quite right, but it isn’t quite wrong, either. You work alone (computers make the work remote), you live alone (one bedrooms mean you’re more successful), and you date alone (apps mean a revolving digital door of strangers). I see your solitude, and I am grateful for my community.

Boy 9, I could sleep with you but only out of morbid curiosity and that unhealthy teaspoon of self-destruction that every hopeless neurotic contains.

UPDATE: You text instantly. It’s weird. The texting continues… I accuse you of disliking me because you didn’t kiss me. You accuse me of recoiling when you made physical contact with me. I don’t remember you touching me… good sign, right?

Somehow a second date is scheduled. Wondering if it was disappointing? You have no idea. I guess I’m a glutton for murky disappointment. I’ll follow a story all the way to Brooklyn. More on that later.

***Turns out to not be accurate, later, unsurprisingly…

Boy 8: Oral Care

You kind of checked me out the moment I walked in? I feel like you should do that when I go to the bathroom halfway through the date.

You started a toothbrush company, and you like podcasts. And rock climbing.

Not feeling it.

You sort of said some presumptuous things about my writing. Then I went to the bathroom, and you apologized when I came back? And assured me my writing was probably great?

It’s nobody’s fault. Sometimes you’re just not feeling it.

Boy 8, thank you:

I didn’t know there was a cool hotel bar thing in Chelsea, and now I do.
It turns out that a Quip is not actually an electric toothbrush. It’s a manual toothbrush that vibrates. So you should actually stick to Sonicare and not fall for those sleek little ads on the subway. I’m glad I know this now.

Boy 8, I wish you the best of luck.

UPDATE: You texted me the next morning. I didn’t text back for a day.

Boy 7: Quantum entanglement, black holes and other metonyms.

So, sometimes Hinge tries to play Yenta.

It sends a profile to me with a little note, insisting that we’re compatible.

I’m open-minded. I’ll play.

Boy 7, you are a theoretical physicist. You went to MIT. You play musical instruments. Hmm.

I start small. I message you about ukuleles.

My ukulele has been staring at me forlornly for months. I have been amateur-four-chord-playing guitar for a few years now, but once I hit the bar chords, my very small hands were offended. They can barely get around the neck of the guitar! Now I have to play bar chords!? So I Amazon-ed a ukulele. It’s smaller, I thought. After it arrived, I picked it up and was appalled that I could not play it. I can see the Onion headline now: WHITE GIRL WITH BANGS GENUINELY SURPRISED AND UPSET WHEN SHE DOESN’T INSTANTLY KNOW HOW TO PLAY UKULELE.

You explain that the ukulele is not that far from a guitar. Then you ask about Harry Potter. Easy nerd icebreaker strikes again. I’m tired of making “I do actual magic” jokes, I deflect and say it’s just meant to communicate what a dork I was and continue to be. And you say you can give me a run for my money there.

And you do.

(Please note: number not yet dropped.)

I ask you about artificial intelligence. You answer and distinguish it from general intelligence, settling on it’s a “quantitative way of studying what intelligence is” but that your background in theoretical physics may be warping your perspective. Then you make a meta-joke about one of my photos. At this point, I must meet you. I don’t care if we never speak again. Good god, I want nothing more than to sit down with a young theoretical physicist and to talk about what intelligence is.

I’ve been fascinated by this question forever. And I sort of write a small paragraph to you about this, starting with the disclaimer that, yes, I have a science degree but that my background is not nearly as rigorous as yours.

Basically, I have never believed in “talent” or in “intelligence.” I think they’re constructs. Meant to perpetuate semi-libertarian myths that are just misguided and misleading applications of the fundamental attribution error. Basically, talent and intelligence are just unconscious accumulations of environmental advantages and small, nurtured predispositions that we confuse with nature. Moreover, it doesn’t behoove me to believe in inherent talent or intelligence, does it? That would only encourage me to work less, wouldn’t it? And to rest on my genetic magical laurels?

I keep coming back to Miles Davis: “Man, sometimes it takes a long time to sound like yourself.” Yes. Because we’re born blank and strange and become something in opposition to and in love with everything and everyone around us. And then, yeah, it takes a fucking long time to figure out what stuck and how to sound like yourself. And usually, at the end of that shitty battle, people see you. And they might think you’re talented or intelligent. But mostly, they’re just responding to the fact that you’ve finally managed to be made by all the things that unmade you.

So, it doesn’t make any sense for me to believe in talent or intelligence. Same argument Voltaire made about believing in God, actually. It just makes sense for me to keep working.

Not that I always make sense.

Speaking of. I’ve been told over and over again, by my family, my significant others, my community, that I am wrong. About all of this. So, I’ve started to accept caveats to my worldview, e.g. the relevance of physical advantages. Certain voices sound a certain way and lend themselves to certain circumstances. And then the questions of brains and neurons come in… maybe there’s a question of processing speed. Do some process faster than others? As a fast talker, I wonder about this… This is all to say, the only arguments I’m willing to entertain on the questions of “talent” and “intelligence” and their provenances would be a scientific ones ’cause that’s how we roll over here.

I mention that one of my pieces of art uses a famous thought experiment as an elaborate metaphor for love and romance.

Obviously, I have dropped my number at this point.

You text right away. Turns out the quantum thought experiment in my play was based in large part on a principle that you studied. You also ask me to drinks. ALSO TURNS OUT that that that very same principle (entanglement) was presented by one of my actors during the research phases of my piece. I send you a picture lest you think I was pandering.

We jump into logistics. You’re busy. I’m busy. GOOD. I now know I can’t do things with people who aren’t busy. I don’t know what the rest of the Hinge world is like, but I’m noticing that lots of people just seem to be “around.” I am not around.

We find an AM date time. I’m flying out that same night after rehearsal, so I say I’ll have a carry-on bag, and you are flying out the next day, but you’ll have a guitar because you’re on your way to practice. Birds of a feather.

Normally I thank Boys for looking like their photo. But this is an extra special “what are the odds” moment. Which given our flights of physics fancy–well, let’s be honest, flights for me, but just every day patter for you–the odds are high, I guess.

I get on the subway. Plan is to check my makeup and fix my hair.

I look around for a place to sit.

Doors haven’t even closed yet…

I see a guitar case.

I look up.

You’re looking at me.

We both go: HEY.

So we ride the subway up. We talk about my plays and your defense during which you wore a cloak and used a dagger instead of a laser pointer. When I describe my play, you ask me if I’ve read Arcadia by Tom Stoppard which you quoted in your defense… I mean. Hello, gorgeous. And, yes, I’ve read it, and the pope is Catholic. In my explanation, I start to give spoilers from my play, and you ask me not to. You’d like to read it. You are the second boy to immediately engage with my work right off the bat. (For those of you keeping score, Boy 2 attended one of my pieces on the first date. I guess Boy 4 engaged in a healthy Google search. Boy 5 googled afterwards.)

I ask you about black holes and your research… we get into what you call modeling and I call metonyms (a literary term you were not familiar with). I also meta-date and say how lovely it is to have so much content between us and ask do other women engage with you on this? You say, no, they usually say “I was so bad at physics” but that you just use it as an opportunity to ask them questions and try to learn something.

Learning, people. Learning people. Learning learning people.

By now we’re on to gravity in other universes. And criticizing academic papers (or quite frankly, any writing at all) that lacks a sense of humor. I’m curious to talk about quantum stuff in my play, but it would be a spoiler, so we just talk about it abstractly. Besides, “reality is quantum” or so you say. We spend a while on the Sleeping Beauty problem, and we realize you’re late. I walk you. At the door, you say you’d like to see me again… if I want to see you again, you add awkwardly.

Boy 6, I want to thank you:

We never got around to the question of intelligence, but whatever you are, you seem to be a brilliant, kind creature obsessed with truth. And, ironically, when I asked how you got into physics, you said you just never outgrew the questions kids ask.
The passion with which you text matches the passion with which you talk. I don’t mean the quips and the flirting. I mean the actual content. There’s lots of sweet-nothing dialogue out there via text. I sometimes feel uncomfortable in monologue though… you can monologue and dialogue.
I’m feeling a little bit sheepish asking you questions about physics. Unlike yours, my work is meant to be at least somewhat accessible by definition; you never made me feel dumb.

Boy 6, I would go on another date with you. I know this is already an excellent meeting of minds. Let’s see what else meets. To quote your defense and Stoppard… “it’s the wanting to know that makes us matter.”

UPDATE: That night you text, hoping my flight was all right and would I text and send you my play if I’d still like to hang out.

I explain that sending my play is more vulnerability than nudity, but sure. And, of course, we’re hanging out! We hadn’t even discussed the nature of intelligence yet.

Boy 6: Block Ice and Books

Boy 6, you were one of the first people I clicked.

Your pictures are all sort of weird, but you said that your personal brand was a young Larry David… and… well, what can I say.

You’re in tech. Hot.

You were a click whim.

You initiated a conversation. Harry Potter banter. Aforementioned easy nerd icebreaker. Lots of jokes about crappy magical means of transportation that are still more effective than the L train. Then we move into other media… some criticism of a theater show you saw and then Silicon Valley ’cause you’re in tech. I ask if it’s realistic. You say it’s a documentary. I complain about the horrid representation of women. You drop a paragraph charting the lack of women throughout Mike Judge’s work, and I drop my number. Remember, this was still a while back. I was dropping my number like a hot potato.

I get a text from you asking if I’d like to get a drink and discuss the lack of women in TV. I say I’d love nothing more.

Yes, goddamnit, yes. We finished the banter on the app, and we move straight to setting up a meeting. Very impressive, Boy 6.

What’s interesting about this is that our texting wasn’t super sparky. There has been a general trend of banter and joking via text that is almost interchangeable at this point between Boys 1, 3 and 5 (with whom I am not actively scheduling second dates).

Our texting is more practical and simple, and once we moved off Hinge, the only texting was to coordinate logistics. Boy 4 is an anomaly (because I kind of already want to embroider his name on my pillow)… we hit on instantly engaging topics via text, and we met almost right away.

Day of our date you text to check in. We change locations because I’m coming from somewhere else now to a bar you love in the West Village. It’s an unmarked speakeasy style bar with those square hunks of ice in the drinks that are so awesome. And an hour into our date a jazz band appears.

You’re there already with drink in hand.

You look like your picture. You are your height. You’ve got kind of hipster glasses. You have broad shoulders. I am intrigued.

I go get my drink. Thank you for not insisting on paying for mine. Yours is some kind of thing with an orange peel in it, and I get a vodka seltzer with a beautiful floating ice cube and a funny metal straw. I love this place, Boy 6, and I actually secretly kind of hate bars.

The conversation is all right at first. Questions about profession… we sort of have to get into some of this more expository stuff because we didn’t text much. You tell me about tech and the lack of women. We get into people who write about science and don’t know shit about science. I tell you my computer science story.

Basically, I took one computer science class, and I ended up having to drop it, but I was completing an assignment that I kept messing up. And I kept thinking, “ugh it’s the computer.” And then I realized… girl, it’s literally NEVER the computer. The computer is simply a reflection of what you put into it. It’s always you. It’s never the computer. You liked this.

The band arrives and we move to bar stools. You are facing me with your legs open. I have learned from a male friend that this means you are body-language-ing me. Ah, ok. So if you open your knees towards me and/or put your feet on my stool, that’s a sign… maybe. This is confusing.

And then we start talking books. You are well read. You are reading one chapter of War and Peace every day. You mock me for liking Jonathan Franzen ’cause you couldn’t get past the bit in The Corrections when the pasty intellectual white professor sleeps with his student. I see you, Boy 6. We talk podcasts. You recommend one called “Deli Boys,” and I explain that I have trouble at Jewish delis because I don’t like anything smoked. You’re horrified. It’s cute. What can I say? Personalities get me all hot and bothered. We talk brisket which you claim as a Southern thing and I claim as a Jewish thing. We walk to the subway, and you miss your stop while you show me all the podcasts on your phone. I explain that I detest soundscapes behind human voices.

You say this was fun. Let’s do it again.

Boy 6, you left me wanting more. I am curious. I would go on another date with you. I would definitely sleep with you.

I want to thank you:

So far, you and Boy 2 are minimal texters pre-first-date. That is downright awesome.
You read. You read so much. You and Boy 4. There’s this thing that happens, I guess, when you are both readers where suddenly, even though you’re strangers, you know the same people. We can gossip about these people. Love them, hate them, lust after them, dismiss them, etc. And then I can tell you to meet other people… Pierre Bezukhov and Neil Klugman and Pip Tyler. And because it’s not as literal as television, which I also love, we can wade through our interpretations and know each other a little.
You seem particular but peaceful.
You have an adorable dog.

UPDATE: You text me the next day. Asking me how I’m doing, etc. We’re texting now about Beowulf and Nathan For You. No date set up, but horizon.

Boy 5: A Little Linguistics

Boy 5.

You’re clever.

You clicked on me, and your profile was funny but vague… so I asked if you were an artist right off the bat. I’ve heard that it’s easier to be a female artist than a male artist on these apps because women are seeking financially stability. This is nauseating. On so many levels. But, anyway, you answer right away that you’re not! You’re basically a corporate writer at this point.

We make jokes about Harry Potter which I feature briefly in my profile. I’m not obsessed with the books, but it’s an easy way to get nerd conversation going. You ask if I can do real magic (…you are not the first boy to ask me this), and I say yes. You call me a magician, and I say that’s not politically correct. I’m a wizard. Then we transition to X-rays because you feature one in your pictures, and I tell you about their use in one my plays. I drop my number–this was still early texting days.

You follow up immediately. We discuss neighborhoods–I’ve slowly been moving south, and you live in Brooklyn. All sorts of heading further and further down and around the world jokes ensue, culminating in my reaching escape velocity and being launched out of Earth’s orbit as a manic pixie space girl. We settle on drinks at an intermediate location in about a week or so.

Also, you like to use the blonde surfing boy emoji. I find this funny. You are neither blonde nor do I think you have ever surfed. You are a quirky, slightly corporate creature.

On the day of the date, you text to confirm. We make many ghosting and disguise “I’ll be the one in the trenchcoat” jokes. You ask me to bring a costume because I’m “in the theatre.” I respond that obviously what it means to be in the theatre is to have a trunk of random costumes and funny hats. Do you happen to need a rubber chicken? You respond about my spelling of the word “theater,” and explain that I’m in “theatre” and not “theater.” I am excited to have this conversation face to face.

We meet.

Boy 5, you kind of look like your photo. B+.

But you are an immediately present and talented conversationalist. You insist on paying for my drink. I explain you do not need to. It turns out you chose a wine bar because I said I drink wine. Neither of us really drink wine, but I like this spot. It is not too loud or crowded.

We talk about your brother who has always been sort of a loser and now works for Google animating their doodle. So, basically, now he’s the cool one forever. We talk about your job and the kind of writing you love. We talk about my job and the kind of writing I love.

Ah, yes, we meant to return to this, and we do: I demand your explanation. You claim that “theatre” refers to the art of and locations in which live theater whereas “theater” refers to a place where non-live art, aka movies, etc., is screened. I find this a fascinating distinction. The one I hear within my community is that “theater” refers to a geographical location whereas “theatre” refers to the concept. I personally think this is all nonsense because “theatre” is simply the British spelling and “theater” is the American spelling, and there are no rules anywhere actually about it, so anyone who says “theatre” is an anglophilic emperor with no clothes on. You argue that language is constantly involving… do I say cuticle or cuticle? GIF or GIF? Language is constantly evolving. I concede.

You tell me a story about how someone at work described a client as “reasonably positive” and then described you as “unreasonably positive” and you agreed with that assessment. I tell my funny story about Boy 1. Then we’re on the topic of people who text funny but don’t manifest funny… suddenly we’re on what is objectively funny and what isn’t? You think things can be objectively funny. I disagree. Nothing is objectively funny except for the consonant “k.” A “bucket” is infinitely funnier than a “pail.” You make a linguistic argument (I am dazzled, not gonna lie) in which you say that “bucket” is also funny though because of the abruptness of the word and its Scandinavian roots. You explain that English has Scandinavian threads that are perceived vulgar (“fuck” and “cunt”) and French threads that are perceived as high end (“fornicate” and “vagina”). I am impressed. I counter that linguistics are all well and good but totally dependent on your native language, aren’t they? My immigrant parents don’t care about the Scandinavian roots. I propose the following…

There are funny things. What makes things funny is that they are at once surprising and familiar. The comedian surprises you with something you always knew.
And there are funny people. We genetically find some things funny. I illustrate this. Sometimes when I deliver a line, I look down and then up and widen my eyes, and people laugh. I do not know why, I explain. I think it’s ’cause we biologically think big eyes are funny. I display my big eyes trick, and you are genuinely upset that it makes you laugh even though you knew it was coming.

I am a slow drinker. You get a second drink. We seem to be closing down the bar. We are back to meta-dating, and I’m discussing my internet presence after you tell me about your first and last experience on stage as an audience member that was called up. We head out. Awkward end of first date hug.

Boy 5, you are cool. You are smart. I do actually think you should write that film that your brother wants to animate. I want to see it. I want to thank you.

You don’t text too much.
You bought the drink without being a dick.
You met me late to accommodate my schedule.
You’re objectively intelligent.

That being said… this was an interesting case of sparky intellectual chemistry and very little physical chemistry? I’m not sure. I was genuinely dazzled by some of your conversational points, but I didn’t want to bite your lip at the same time.

Boy 5, I think I want to be friends with you?

UPDATE: You texted me the next morning asking me where you should commence googling me. I obviously suggested the horror flick in which I play a hipster date from hell.