The Cheese Stands Alone

This summer I heard about a book called “100 First Dates,” and I was interested in reading more about it because as it turns out I, too, am a first date connoisseur.  I went online and read the premise of the book: a single, twenty-something-year-old girl in New York named Laura Esteves dated every single man she could find in NYC for one month, and then wrote a book about it.

“100 dates in a month?  Seriously?” I thought. “That’s impressive.”  But then I read the catch: she hadn’t met these single men in the course of her normal activities; she had met them via online dating sites.  Not that I begrudge anyone the opportunity to find love online, but if we were going to be competing for first date stories (and I decided we were), then we couldn’t cut corners. And when it comes to dating, I’m a little old fashioned.

So old fashioned, in fact, that I spent a few years in my teens watching my weight for the sole reason that when I got married, I wanted to be light enough for my husband to carry me over the threshold of our first home.  I had never witnessed this occurrence in real life, but it seemed to happen every week on “Little House on the Prairie,” which I watched religiously.

Flash forward to six months ago, when I bought my first home.  After a whirlwind of signing documents, securing a mortgage, and obtaining home owner’s insurance, my real estate agent called me to tell me the good news: the townhouse was mine.

She met me in front of my new place and handed me the keys.  “Congratulations,” she said.  I gave her a thank-you note and a bottle of wine, and she gave me a gift card to World Market.

And then I stood there, staring at the front door, key in my hand, with the nagging feeling that something was missing.  No, it was someone. For all of my life, I had imagined this moment as a newlywed, with some strapping young man scooping me up and carrying me into our small but charming starter home.  Not once had I imagined making my grand entrance alone.

My real estate agent got a call from someone, and she began explaining to them who was bringing the hot dog buns to a picnic.  While she talked, she sent me an apologetic look and motioned me towards the door.

I slowly fit the key into the lock, opened the door, and stepped across the threshold. And just like that, I was home.  Alone.

My agent waved at me and, while she continued her cell phone conversation, climbed into her car and drove away.

I closed the door behind me, sat down in the empty living room with my back against the wall, and I cried.

This is the problem with taking all your cues from “Little House.”  When you expect life to be a romantic dream, you end up like Michael Landon’s character, Pa, crying at the end of every scene.

*

At the beginning of the summer, I decided I would try my own experiment and see how many single men I could meet over the course of the summer – partly because I was inspired by the premise of Ms. Esteves’ book, and partly because I now had a big empty kitchen and no supplies, and I wanted to register for stuff.

Before their weddings, each of my married friends have gone to upscale department stores with their fiancés and registered for all things domestic.  When you tell one of those stores you’re getting married, they give you a scanner gun and you get to browse the aisles and zap whatever you want, and it shows up on a computerized list that wedding guests can reference when they’re buying your wedding gifts.

I, on the other hand, had gone to a discount store and paid $16.99 for something called a Kitchen Starter Pak that included amorphous white dishes, unimaginative silver ware, an aluminum pot, and a paring knife that wouldn’t cut through a ripe banana.

To celebrate my new home, I threw a dinner party for my friends.  After dinner I wanted to make tea to serve with dessert, but all my other dishes were dirty so I made tea in a frying pan.  One of my friends gently suggested that since I had a full-time career and a decent salary, I might invest in equipment like a knife set and a tea kettle.  “No way,” I said, “There’s no way I’m paying for kitchen crap when married people get to have it for free.”

So out of principle, I keep a skeleton crew of kitchen supplies and I boil water in the frying pan and drink tea from a ceramic flower vase.  I have a mantra I recite to everyone who balks when I make toast over the gas burner on top of my stove: “Because single people need kitchen stuff, too.”

But it did cross my mind that if I found a successful relationship, I could finally register for trendy kitchen ware like a lemon zester or a garlic press or even a blender.  Love may come and go, but a KitchenAid is forever.

*

My dating experiment began on the first Saturday in June, when I took a collection of Spurgeon sermons to Starbucks and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window, coffee in hand, anticipating a morning of inspiration.

A few minutes into reading, I looked up to see a handsome, tall, tanned man with a big smile walking towards me.  He motioned to the seat next to me and asked if it was taken.

I shook my head, and as he laid his book about community on the chair next to me, I did the obligatory left-hand check for a wedding ring.  No ring, fair game.

He came back a minute later with his chai, and we began talking.  We talked Spurgeon, living in community, loving God, and church politics. It was going so well, I just knew he was going to ask me out.

By the time we got to comparative religion, I had decided that he may even be the one. He looked at his watch and told me he had to get going soon.  We shook hands and exchanged names.  He asked me what I did for a living, and I told him.  Then I asked him the same question and he informed me, “I’m a Catholic priest.”

And instead of saying, “Nice to meet you” or “Thanks for the stimulating conversation,” I found myself asking him, “The celibate kind?”

The next single man I met was a doctor who was everything you could hope: handsome, intelligent, successful, articulate, and thoughtful.  And he was gay.

I called my mom to vent.  “I’m not asking for much here – just a single man who is straight and has not taken a lifelong vow of celibacy.  Is that so hard?”  Evidently, yes.  But I kept trying anyway.

The next single man I met was a doctor from Iran.  He took me to a movie, and then out to dinner.  And somehow over dinner I happened to mention that I was a breast cancer survivor.

“I do not believe you,” he said, in a thick but charming accent.  “It cannot be true.”

“Oh, but it is,” I assured him.

A few minutes later, when we were walking to a bookstore downtown, he was apparently still in denial that I’d had reconstruction on my chest and in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, he reached over and prodded my chest with his index finger.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, as I slapped his hand away.

“Hmm,” he said, with a hint of disappointment.  “You are right, they are not real.”

After him came the real estate developer I met in line at the pharmacy, who asked for my number and promised to call, and then never did.

And after him was the litigation attorney from New York who came to the clinic with a high fever.  That night in an e-mail he told me I was “stunning.”  I was flattered, until I checked my e-mail the next morning and found a second message in which he apologized for the previous e-mail.  “It must have been the fever talking,” he said.

So apparently men have not only beer, but fever goggles as well.

I met another man when I was walking from the clinic to the train after work one evening.  I was almost at my stop, when I heard live music coming from the square.  I walked a few blocks over to take it in.  There was an Italian festival, and a live band was playing, “That’s Amore.”

I stood in the back of the crowd and lost myself in the strains of the accordion.  I began unconsciously swaying with the music, and the next thing I knew, there was a hand on my shoulder.

“Are you meeting someone here?” a tall stranger with the faintest hint of an accent asked.

I shook my head.

“You like to dance?” he asked.

I nodded.

We danced to the music, and then he whispered in my ear, “Would you like to get a drink?”

Over drinks, he explained that he was a businessman from Tel Aviv and would be flying home the next morning.  After paying the tab, he walked me to my stop and kissed me on the cheek as I boarded the train home.

And then he never called and he stopped returning my e-mails and I thought, “Now that’s Amore.”

*

Over the course of the summer, I went on so many first dates that what started out as an adventure became a boring chore.  I had the same first-encounter conversation so many times, it became a monologue that I could have delivered in my sleep.

There was the pre-dinner conversation:

Hi, I’m  Sarah Thebarge.

I know, my last name is a trip, The – Barge. Yes, it’s pronounced just like it sounds.

It’s French, I think.

I know, it is fortunate I’m not overweight, because that really would have been a painful childhood.

No, I don’t have a restaurant preference. I like everything except meat – I’m a vegetarian.

Oh, I don’t know exactly why I gave up meat. It just seemed like an interesting experiment.

No, I won’t be offended if you order steak.

Followed by the dinner conversation:

How about the booth in the corner?

No, I haven’t been here before.

Yes, it looks like a very nice place.

I just met you, I don’t want to tell you my most embarrassing moment.

I don’t know what title I’d pick for my autobiography, or which actress I’d pick to play me.

I grew up as a pastor’s kid.

No, I’m not as rebellious as you think.

I work full-time in medicine, and my secret ambition is to write a book.

No, I don’t have much free time.

No, I didn’t see that episode – I don’t own a T.V.

I know, but it’s possible to survive without it.

I go to movies, have coffee with my friends, or read.

My salad was great. How was your steak?

No, thank you, I wouldn’t care to try it.

Sure, I’ll split dessert with you.

Yes, it was a very nice meal. Thank you.

Followed by the after-dinner conversation:

Sure, you can walk me to my car.

I know, we should definitely do this again.

Call me when you get your schedule and we can make plans.

Yes, I’ll think you’re a jerk if you don’t call.

Yes, it was nice to meet you, too.

Good night.

*

I had lots of first dates, a handful of second dates, and no third dates.

The only proposal I got came from a homeless man with no teeth.

“What is wrong with me?” I asked my friend.

She suggested maybe it was my wardrobe and offered to take me shopping for new clothes. She informed me that ruffles were in, square heels were out, and teal was the new black.

I got new clothes, cut my hair, paid more attention to my makeup, and accessorized.

And still, the results were the same.  The first dates kept coming but there was no follow through and definitely no long-term commitments.

In the meantime, I got a steady stream of engagement announcements and wedding invitations and birth announcements in the mail from my friends and married siblings.

By the end of the summer I decided that I was the cheese who was destined to stand alone.  In keeping with this new reality, I revised my friend’s fashion advice: “Marriage is out, men are square heels, and singleness is the new black.”

*

Maybe someday my prince will come, and maybe someday he won’t. Who can say?

In the meantime, I’m scooping peanut butter out of the jar with tongue depressors, drinking water from an old spaghetti sauce jar and writing a business proposal for any department store that will listen.

Here’s the thing: I don’t want to come to your store and register with a man; I want to register for a man.

“I’ll have bachelor number two. And a gift receipt. Just in case it doesn’t work out.”