My first “first date” last week was delightful. After a long hiatus from dating on campus, I felt like a lucky boy to be out on the town with an adorable and charming lady.
Finding her was a little tricky. In the absence of any casual leads, I wasn’t sure how to seek a potential date without seeming indiscriminate. I didn’t want to be too picky, but I did want the date to be genuinely romantic. Complicating the matter, asking a girl I didn’t know at all seemed strange, but asking a girl I knew too well risked trespassing a friend zone.
A female friend of mine asked if I was only going to ask out cute girls, a great and fair question. Yes, but more specifically, I’m only going to ask out girls that I find attractive. Isn’t the point of dating to find someone you spark with? I hope a girl would only acquiesce because she finds me attractive as well. There’s nothing like a pity-date to make for sour memories.
On a tight schedule for the Campus deadline, I enlisted a miscellany of friends to help me identify prospects in Ross on Friday night. I pitched to a girl finishing dinner with a friend. She explained, “I’m not single, so I don’t think I should.” In a fit of idiocy, overtaken by nerves, I asked her friend if she was a student here, then limped away to regroup with my spotting team.
Then, she sat down a couple tables away with her friends. Knowing they’d listen in anyway, I addressed all five of them with my pitch but stood next to her. “And I’m wondering if you would be my date,” I finished, with a light tap on her shoulder. There was an explosion of hilarity from all sides of the table. She looked shocked, stuttered, then agreed. “Only thing is, I have to go tomorrow night.” “She’s free,” a friend assured on her behalf.
I wanted to be discreet about Belinda’s* identity, but the cloak of anonymity is a slippery fish. Two of my scouts knew who she was. Though neither knew her personally, they’d only heard good things. A close friend, Emilia*, heard who my date was and was thrilled; she’s known Belinda for years. I declined to let Emilia tell me anything about Belinda, and also decided not Facebook stalk her.
Then Saturday I saw her at lunch in Proctor and again at the squash courts. Both times, I was with someone who knew her or knew of her, but I made no inquiries about her. I’m unsure what information, if any, is fair to glean in advance of a date and by what sources. I figured I preferred to know her to the extent that she chose to share.
We headed to 51 Main, which is owned by the College and only has dinner service. They don’t take reservations, so I was glad to find the place filled but not full when we arrived at 6:45. We sat at a high table next to a space heater, which I worried would be dangerously hot, but it was actually quite nice.
However, my legs were too short to comfortably rest on the lower crossbar of the tall chair, so I propped them on the higher one, forcing me to lean over my bent knees to keep from slouching backwards. Self-consciously, I worried my posture seemed too aggressively engaged, when I was really just trying to stay balanced. No doubt, there was some undue worrying on my side of the table.
The food was delicious and our conversation energetic. Belinda, a sophomore, told me she was paid $20 after volunteering to sing impromptu onstage at a country festival in Utah and about how her triplet siblings have rhyming nicknames. We made a show of civility by using our silverware to split the Mezze Platter appetizer, a finger dish under any other circumstance.
For entrées, she wisely chose the salmon, which can be eaten in graceful bites between rounds of conversation. I bent to whim over good sense, and got the grilled chicken sandwich, a poor choice for a first date with a whip-smart conversationalist. Like any sandwich, it required substantial chewing, and I admit to feeling a bit underprepared to ask questions that inspired sufficiently long answers.
We each got a dessert and sampled the other. The Vermont Cookie Love Sundae was rich as a pharaoh; the Flourless Banana-Almond Cake was subtle like petals in the wind. Both were excellent. We bundled up and headed out as the jazz band got started. 51 Main brings great live performers, but the pressed-tin ceiling and brick walls can make for tough acoustics.
We walked back to Gifford, after just over two hours together. Cautious to give an appropriate farewell, I hugged her and said goodbye. It felt right, though I sure as hell would’ve liked to have given her a kiss. Break was coming and the falling snow looked like Dippin’ Dots. She was wearing a knit cap over her hair to keep her freckled ears warm.
Admittedly, my memory of the evening has been inflated by my continual reflection. At times I would cringe, realizing how dumb I sounded. I wish I’d been a little looser, maybe come prepared with an awesome joke. Next time I’ll try to snag a table on the floor. But I accept all the crinkles as foibles of being human. In retrospect, I actually think the date was a resounding success.
*name changed
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