Just Say No…To Forced Make Outs.

Although we live in the age of internet dating, speed dating, and “just lunch” (because it’s okay to go out with a potential serial killer if “It’s Just Lunch™”), I still feel that the goal of almost every singleton is to meet someone “through friends” or “through friends of friends.” In fact, many of us fantasize about it. You hear the success stories – Karenna Gore met her Ivy League educated, New York society, billionaire doctor husband through friends at a dinner party. Ok, that might have happened to the then Vice President’s daughter, but for the rest of us, it just doesn’t work that way. I know my friends. I love them dearly, however, I know this – if one of them had a single, rich, Ivy League educated, doctor friend lying around, they most certainly would not be calling me, or anyone else for that matter. I do a lot for people, but I don’t think that anyone feels they owe me that big of a favor.

Having said that, I feel that with every evite comes the wonder, “Hmm…will anyone interesting be there?” Sometimes the unthinkable happens, you actually do hit it off with someone and get a date at the party. Sometimes, shockingly enough, the date actually goes well, and maybe even, many dates happen. Before long, you’re in relationship bliss, telling friends and coworkers you met “at a party…through friends.” You’re living the American Single Person’s Dream.

This is not one of those stories.

I will set the scene. Early August, group birthday, rooftop party. I ended up talking to a friend of a friend named Rob. It was very nice conversation. In fact, it was several very nice conversations. At the end of the night, he asked for my number…in front of ten other people in my friend’s apartment. Yes, I should have seen this as a sign that more awkwardness was ahead as we did the whole numbers swapping thing with an audience of ten suddenly very quiet people. My friend Mary, ever the true friend, felt obligated to take a picture of the moment so I could treasure it forever, in black and white no less (because awkward moments should always look timeless). She even did the honors of promptly posting it on Facebook the next morning (Yes, Mary is that friend who always serves as the Saturday night photographer. However, instead of sharing the pics privately on Snapfish, she puts them on Facebook for the entire world to see. There is nothing more terrifying than being out and about the next day, hungover, away from a computer, only to get an email on your blackberry stating “You have been tagged in 13 pictures on Facebook.”)

Anyway, back to the story. So Rob called me exactly two nights later and asked me to dinner. I have to say, in this age of techonology and casual courtship, I was quite impressed that this boy a) actually picked up the phone to call me – no emailing, no texting b) asked me to dinner – nothing ambiguous like “drinks” or “hanging out”. Yes, this was a date, no doubt about it. I will admit expectations were not incredibly high for this evening, however, if anything, I saw it as a chance to have a good meal, good conversation, a new person to get to know, and, if anything, something to do. This will be fun.

So it’s time for the date. I got to the restaurant from work in perfect date ready spirits, and I wait. And wait. And wait some more. Finally, he arrives after being stuck in traffic. Ok, no big deal. However, I do notice something. Now let me preface this by saying, I could care less about what any guy wears, and frankly, I don’t want to date anyone who wears nicer jeans than I do. But he was wearing Dad jeans. They didn’t look bad (at all), it’s just you see Eddie Bauer and you think…Dad. So hence the name Dad Jeans Rob was born.

So we finally sit down, and study the menu, and study the menu, and study the menu some more. Now if a date is going well, I find you have so much to talk about that the wait staff has to come by several times to take your order. “Oh, sorry, I haven’t even looked!” “Oh, sorry again, ok we promise we’ll look. Can we get another round of drinks, though?” “Ok, are we ready? Aahh! I haven’t even looked. You go first.” Aaah, such heavenly first date banter bliss.

This did not happen. We had NOTHING to talk about. We’re the same age, we both live in DC, we both work in politics. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. I practically memorized the menu. “So what do you think you’re going to get?” “Uh, I don’t know. What do you think you’re going to get?” “I don’t know. Everything looks good.” “Yeah, I know. I can’t decide. ” Painful. This was pretty much how the entire date was. Long silences. Uninteresting chit chat. Zero chemistry whatsoever.

Now for some of you, this might be the usual, but here’s the thing: I’m a great date. I don’t feel bashful about saying this. I’m well read, I can string sentences together, I can pretty much talk to a brick wall. I may not like the guy, he may not like me, but I know with most certainty that I can hold a conversation and tell a few ridiculous stories. Even if I’m not interested in someone, I have never walked away saying, “I had a terrible time.” This was truly a first.

Anyway, it’s 9:00, we’re leaving the restaurant, and I’m ready to shake hands and call it an evening. “Thanks so much for dinner. It was really nice to meet you.” “Oh, let me walk you home. ” Greeeeaaat. After another 10 minutes of awkward conversation, we are now outside my building. Ok, can we just shake hands now? Oh no, he goes in for the hug. “It was great to meet you.” “You too.” Oh God, please please take your hand off my back. Oh God, please please tell me you’re not going in for a kiss. Oh, but you are.

Ladies and gentleman, Dad Jeans Rob forced a make out. Yes, Seemed Like a Gentleman Dad Jeans Rob forced a make out. Sober. At 9:00 on a Thursday night. I don’t even like to kiss on the first date unless, you know, it’s a reallllly good date. Or I’m wasted. I mean, it’s not as if it was 1:00 am, and we just gabbed the night away. I was sober. Too sober, in fact, even after splitting a bottle of wine (Yes, it was so boring, I couldn’t even get drunk.) To make matters worse, I live on a very busy, very social street. All of Washington, DC walked by as I was forced to make out. I hate PDA, yet I was the worst offender. (That said, let’s be honest, when you really want to make out with someone, you don’t care who is walking by. Your Mom, Grandmother, Priest, and Boss could walk by, and you don’t care. You’re making out, and it’s good. This was not one of those times.)

After I wiped my face off, I said good night, and possibly ran, maybe even sprinted, into my building. Did I miss something? How in the world did Dad Jeans Rob think we had so much chemistry that it warrented a first date make out? I thought he probably got the hint, you know, with me running into my building and not asking him to come up, however Monday afternoon I got a text asking to get drinks THAT NIGHT. Um, a same day invite? Really? I can think of two guys in my entire dating career (ok, it really hasn’t been that long) who got away with a same day invite, and looking back, they probably shouldn’t have.

The texting went on for a couple of weeks. Seriously. I tried being nice with my rejection at first, but after a while I gave up. I just stopped responding. It’s official: I Was Just Not That Into Him, and he just didn’t get it. Any of it. However, lesson learned – from now on, when I say good night to a boy, I will take two giant steps back after the hug, possibly wave goodbye, maybe shake hands, and promptly walk into my building. I have yet to stop feeling violated.

An addition I unfortunately forgot to add: When I got the “day of drinks invite” text, I promptly emailed the gal pals for advice. How do I get rid of Dad Jeans Rob? Best advice was from my friend Lauren:

i think you should go – wearing mom jeans. STONEWASHED mom jeans.

that’ll probably kill the crush.