Anyway, I wondered if I was setting the bar too high. I’m a perfectionist Virgo, so I’m known to be picky. I figured hey, I can be chill, man. I can relax the search criteria and see who I catch in a wider net. So I find this guy. I read his profile and he seems like a nice guy. I ponder on his pictures for a while, trying to decide if, and how much, I find him attractive. I ponder, because there are only a few pictures – two or three – and they’re the usual guy type: one awkward, not-really-smiling photo taken in the bathroom mirror (God forbid he admit to a friend that he’s creating a dating profile and ask them to take the picture), one from a sporting event where their face is covered in team colours and half obscured by a dorky hat, and one travel photo (to prove their cultural expertise) where they’re propping up the Leaning Tower of Pisa and you can’t even tell it’s the same person.

So I pondered. I kept looking and decided that maybe he’s the kind of guy that looks better in person. We all have awkward photos, after all. Cue email exchanges. He still seemed nice, so we agreed on a coffee date to see if there was any in-person chemistry.

I don’t remember the events of the day leading up to the date, but I want to say that it hadn’t been great. It was a fairly typical workday, but perhaps a couple things had happened that didn’t go in my favour, or I was given an insane deadline. As I left work, I wasn’t feeling in the best frame of mind, and I had some reservations about the date. I arrived at the coffee shop, circled through the joint trying to find the perfect table (Virgo, remember?), and just as I returned to the front, a small table right by the door was vacated. I made a beeline for it and settled myself down to wait.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and in walked this guy. The moment I saw him, I just knew it wasn’t going to go well. Remember the scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary where she lays eyes on Colin Firth for the first time? He turns around and she discovers he’s wearing the dorkiest of dorky grandpa sweaters, complete with Rudolph on the front.

My date was wearing a grandpa sweater (sans Rudolph, thank god for small favours), but sadly, the dorky qualities didn’t end there. Turns out his picture was probably slightly more flattering, rather than less. He looked around the room, spotted me and I gave a wave of acknowledgement. Then he walked over and leaned down to give me the most awkward of awkward hugs to date. I barely had time to stand up before he was over me, so I had to give this one-handed, off-balanced grasp around his waist. We went to the counter to order and collect out drinks and then sat down to chat.

Everything went downhill from there.

We talked about our neighbourhoods – I lived in Manhattan, he lived in Brooklyn. We talked about where we went out – I went out in Manhattan, he went out in Brooklyn. We talked about the differences between Australia and the US – I tried to explain the culture, he didn’t get it. We talked about sports – I liked the Yankees, he liked the Mets. I said black, he said white. I said double stuffed Oreo, he said Oreos should have never been invented. Ok, so I made that last one up. But you get the idea. The entire conversation was made up of contrary opinions. Not once did we agree on anything. Finally, I was able to locate my phone and check the time. Thankfully, a very reasonable twenty minutes had passed, so I begged off, saying I had somewhere to be. He accepted that, and I began collecting my things to leave.

And then he asked if he could see me again!

I’m sure the immediate and unmitigated look of horror on my face was enough of an answer, so any polite lies were useless. I stumbled over a “No, I don’t think so.” To which he awkwardly nodded and stood up to leave.

And then he leaned over to hug me. Again!

I was so overwhelmed by this shockingly inappropriate move that I could not do nor say anything to get him to back off. So I patted his back and tried to get him off me as speedily as possible.  We headed for the door and he walked out first, turning in the exact direction that I needed to go. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, unsure about what to do. Do I follow him and continue the awkward dance all the way back to Union Square until he descended down the steps for the L train to Brooklyn and I headed for an uptown train? Or do I go in the opposite direction and walk 3 crosstown blocks to the C train that would take me directly back to my place?

Ding ding ding, option two it was. I called a friend and spilled the entire story to her, laughing my ass off, because what else was there to do in this situation?

The moral of the story? Who gives a shit if you’re picky. Don’t lower your standards, or you’ll end up on awkward dates that are just a waste of time and do nothing to alter your single status. Bitter, party of one?

If my life were a tv show
How would this have played out differently? In a sitcom, I probably would have walked in the same direction as the guy, and ended up looking like A) a glutton for punishment, or B) a stalker. We would have continued to make awkward conversation until I ran for a random subway train that subsequently got stuck halfway between stations. Finally it would arrive at the next stop, where I would board another train that instantly became an express right before my stop and carried me all the way up to the Bronx. I’d wait on an unfamiliar platform outside in the November chill until it started snowing. Finally, I’d get home 3 hours later after being ripped off by a gypsy cab driver whom I had to convince to take me back to the Upper West Side.

The Verdict
Wow, I’m kind of glad my life isn’t a tv show. I’ll stick with the reality on this one.