His name was Marcelo. He was tall, dark, handsome, young and he wore very nice shoes. He asked me for my number at the end of our shift and I gave it without hesitation; one would almost say eagerly and this despite the fact that an annoying voice in my head was shouting something about wanting men to leave me the hell alone.
He called me up and asked me out. I told him I was willing to do coffee. We set up a time and said that we would meet in the general vicinity of Bryant Park and we would make up our minds about where to head from there. We did not give a specific spot. We would just go to Bryant Park at a designated time and the first one there would give the other a call. Very casual. Does anyone else see the potential issues with this plan? People get on my case for being a tight ass but I mean really.
Anyway, the two of us had created a plan where the possibilities for subconscious self-sabotage were nearly endless. So I’m driving to my date (and I have to say that my hair and outfit were fabulous!). I am singing at the top of my lungs to that new song by Beyonce trying very hard to dump the feeling that I did not want to be dressed up, driving or heading into the city to meet with a man I barely know, nice shoes or not.
I parked the car and gathered my things, then I decided that it was too warm for me to wear my adorable violet jacket with the pretty purple flower buttons. I didn’t want to carry extra crap so I left it in the backseat. I was at 9th street on the Path Train before I realized that I had left my phone in that cute little jacket .
I had 15 minutes until my date started. Now here’s the list of problems.
1. His number is in my phone.
2. I do not know his last name so I cannot try to call information and get his number.
3. The car and the phone are ½ hour away from me and this is not including the time it will take for me to wait for a train going in the opposite direction and then another train to switch over at journal square.
I am red faced with shame. This is the type of squirrely behavior that other people exhibit. This is hurtful to poor Marcelo and embarrassing to me. I am picturing him standing there dressed nicely waiting for me. In my mind’s eye I see his expression of happy expectation turn to one of disappointment and anger as I fail to answer his repeated calls. I beat myself thoroughly. I do understand that the experience is not going to scar him permanently, but I self-flagellate anyway.
It is 25 minutes after the date was supposed to start before I get to my phone. I immediately call and apologize profusely. It ends up not being that big of a deal. He had spent that entire time looking for a parking space. He even asks me if I would like to meet him later for dinner. I turn him gently down. I have learned my lesson about forcing myself on dates. I have already vowed to discontinue this behavior. It occurs to me that he must have really liked me to be so gentlemanly about the situation, but then I remind myself that he does not know me. His transference, his problem. He kept calling me for a week before he got the message and I no longer heard from him. I felt relief in my tummy.
I relate most of this to my therapist. He tells me that the date represented my desire to prove that I did not want to have sex with a father figure. For a fraction of a second I wonder what the hell I am paying him for. Then I realize that my insurance is paying for almost all of it and I relax.
This is going to be a long lonely ride. Thank God for dildos.
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