Single in the City: Dates That Make You Cringe

Single in the City is a weekly feature exploring the random musings and weekly escapades of a single black girl in the city.  Call me Flow Eezy, an eternal hopeful, a perpetual believer that maybe, just maybe, I could meet that guy: Smart, funny, articulate and principled.  I wonder if I am a member of a dying breed, in this age of the booty call. As we meander through these post-recessionary times, one thing is clear; dating in New York is hard. And harder when you have values, never mind morals. But I am holding out! I’m not perfect, far from it… 

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Have you ever been on a date and you just cringed? Well I did just that this past weekend. It all began a few months ago on the Upper East Side, at a fundraising party to benefit Haiti. There I met, what appeared to be, a handsome native of Haiti, who was also fluent in Japanese. Dashing, interesting, pedigree – I was stoked.

At exactly 8:09 p.m., my phone rang, announcing the arrival of my date. As I hung up, I winced, wondering out loud, “who shows up at exactly 8:09p.m. as promised?” Rather than being impressed at his “punctuality”, alarm bells went off in my head – I had a strange feeling about the evening ahead…

I made it a point to take my sweet-ole time, sashaying across my lobby almost 20 minutes later. He greeted me with kind eyes and a warm smile, the generosity of his gesture, despite my being late, left me feeling a little evil, but my pride sucked out every ounce of humility, leaving me defiantly obnoxious and unapologetic for being late. Next, he opened the door to his car, and lying on the seat was a lovely bouquet of peonies. The fragrant aroma of the fresh flowers scented my soul, and quickly made his circa-1982 hoopty of a Honda Accord, not look so bad, after all. We started cruising and within seconds, I realized his air-conditioning was not working, I was mortified. He apologized repeatedly, while I gradually melted in all my fineries-Chanel, Gucci and all. Thankfully, we cut through Central Park to FDR highway, and the breeze cooled me down. I soon regained composure, as we headed south towards Brooklyn Bridge.

We pulled up on Fulton Street, in Brooklyn, to a quaint Haitian restaurant…but somewhere between FDR and our destination, I had gotten religion, and resolved that nothing was going to get in the way of this first date. We walked in, greeted by the pounding sound of a wannabe-Haitian-rock band. Since he was well versed in Haitian cuisine, he took the lead ordering dinner, and I happily accepted his suggestions. While we waited for our food to arrive, he ordered a round of drinks, something with Haitian rum, and delicious it was. We had a charming, alluring conversation, the sort you only experience on a first date – wistful, full of promise and hope; bouncy, cheerful and dazzling. There were butterflies everywhere! Dinner was presented family-style, and without missing a beat, he simultaneously served me a hearty portion and explained the intricacies of each dish, interlacing his commentary with smatterings of flirty sweet nothings. I reciprocated with a coy smile and complimented his every move. The evening was on a groovy high, and I was pleased, even remorseful for my bad behavior earlier in the evening.

And then, I cringed. The first touch, slight caress, it was all happening too fast. This fast-false move completely marred the evening. He went from cool to slime in a heartbeat. I was bored. I wanted desperately for this date to end. I couldn’t tell you which was worse: the fake wannabe-Hatian-rock-band or his timid, slimy advances. I just cringed and wondered “can I go home now?” But oh no, this date was far from over. He came up with the brilliant idea to whisk me off to a bar on Nostrand Avenue, as he put it, “the night was still young”. I settled on red wine, he had a beer; and together, we had a nervously charming waiter. It was now almost one o’clock in the morning, and I was starting to feel the weight of the work-week resting heavily on my shoulder, I was done!

Much as he tried to be romantic, I was curiously distracted, feenin for someone else.  If he had been the man I dreamed of, I would have drooled. The silly would have been cute, the annoying adorable, and the irritating justifiably explained. In the end, it wasn’t the ill-fated, air-condition-less hoopty or the fake wannabe-Hatian-rock-band that killed the date. Rather, it was a curious mix of my tormented soul, exacerbated by his ill-timed advances.

Why did I cringe? Indeed, why do we cringe on dates? My theory, women cringe not because the man is so bad, but because other pressing thoughts and desires prevent us from seeing what’s in front of us, never mind appreciating it. So far, our first date has been our last (no surprises there) and not for lack of trying on his part. This man has called and called, and made several attempts to see me. Still I’m stuck in some kind of cringe-mode that I can’t seem to get out of. And there you have it.