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Learning from my mistakes, I created a list of dos and don’ts.
Don’ts:
Bathroom selfies.
Dick pics.
Ask what I’m wearing, unless it’s related to the place where we’re meeting.
Say they can’t wait to tell their mother about me.
Ask if I’d like to meet at their apartment.
Dos:
Ask my favorite color.
Share funny jokes, not of a sexual nature.
Send me flowers. (A girl could dream.)
Love to read.
Their name is Herb. (I still believed in Serendipity.)
Sure, Herb was rude and dismissive, but he had been hiding his true self under a grumpy exterior. It was more than just wild speculation on my part. It was an educated guess.
As a psychology major, I’d learned the why behind human actions and interactions. Nonverbal communication had been one of my favorite classes. It had taught me to read body language to determine what they were saying without using any words.
Through hand gestures, facial expressions, and eye contact—or lack thereof—people revealed their inner selves and feelings. Also, the proximity in which they stood or sat next to each other was crucial to relationships. It was called the “personal space bubble.”
The day I fell into Herb’s arms, I’d burst through his bubble, and he hadn’t seemed to mind at all. Instead of righting me, he’d seemed paralyzed, peering down at me for more than a second or two, probably like ten. Finally, someone in the crowded shop had to tell him to help me stand up.
On top of that, he’d rubbed his jaw and combed through his hair while he’d decided how to respond to me—all nervous habits showing a person conflicted in what to say or do. Yet, he held himself as a man in total control of his world. I believed the ordered exterior was a facade to keep his feelings suppressed. How’s that for an Alabama psych graduate? I’d learned something after all. Take that IG human resources who hated my southernisms.
I also did something rather sneaky when I walked away from Herb. I darted into an enclave at the building next to the coffee shop. It made me look like I had vanished into thin air. I’d peeked out from my hiding place, seeing Herb still standing where I’d left him. Not a muscle in his tall, gorgeous body had moved. Maybe he hadn’t wanted me with him after that day, but his body language had told me otherwise. He wasn’t the type of man who responded to pushing, though, so I’d left soon after he had. It was a long, sad ride home on the subway.
Two weeks later, I found myself getting ready for my first Bumble date under my new rules. It had taken me that long to find a suitable match. Oh, I forgot one thing: he had to have a photo of him in a suit on his profile. I’d fallen in love with that look. I called it the Herb side-effect.
The first candidate was Thomas. He worked for a Fin-tech startup, but only mentioned it once as we texted back and forth. It was a good sign he wasn’t married to his job or would talk all night about how many years he had to go to make partner and exciting stuff like that. Yawn.
He’d asked me to meet him at a bar in midtown called Dream. I told him nine o’clock would work for me, and he’d agreed. I decided all first dates would be drinks only. For one, it was cheaper—I hated a guy spending all that cash on me if he and I were not a good fit. Plus, after one drink, I could tell him I had to be up early for work, or church, if I wanted to pour cold water on his hopes for hooking up later.
I applied a coat of my trusty Golly That’s Red lipstick, smoothed my hair, and grabbed my purse. I turned off my bedroom light, ready to head out and grab a bite to eat before I met Thomas. Major rule: always eat a carb-loaded meal before meeting a stranger for drinks. When I’d failed to remember this fact, I ended up Netflix and chilling with major regrets.
“Maggie,” Tessa called me from her room. “I need to ask you a favor.”
She probably wanted to borrow my black club dress. It fit her better than me. I should just give it to her. I wouldn’t wear it again knowing it was made for her anyway.
“Sure.” I peeked around the corner of her bedroom door. “What’s up?”
“You’re going to need to sit down for this one.” Okay, so it wasn’t about the dress. I landed on her bed, making her bounce.
“Are you kicking me out for being a spaz?” When this joke didn’t elicit a smile, mine fell away too. “Must be serious.”
“It’s like life serious.”
“But not death, so that’s good.” Still only a stoned-faced response. That not being my funniest joke didn’t help either.
