Single and Predatory on Valentine’s Day (Jules discovers the meaning of love!)
On the bus I curse life. It's cold and bumpy. I've forgotten my ipod and now I must listen to some cow behind me crumpling her Doritos bag every time one of her fat paws reaches in for another chip. I'm recovering from a chest cold and I haven’t left the house for five days. My re-integration into society isn't going as swimmingly as anticipated.
I don’t particularly want to get to my destination. And that’s why the bus is actually on time, this time. Buses are never on time when you’re in a desperate hurry, eager to meet your friends at the “Anti-Valentine’s Day Singles Event!” But when an “Anti-Valentines Day” thingy happens on Valentine’s Day, and the purpose is for singles to meet and fall in love with each other, and romance is dumb, and the incongruence of it grinds on my last nerve, here pulls up the 94C like a magic chariot!
I disembark and enter Schmooze, where this “Event” is taking place. No-one is wearing red because that’s not allowed according to the dress code. No sneakers, no Ts, no jeans, no hats, no expression of individuality. Between all these rules and the effing snow storm outside, I have nothing appropriate to wear. I opt for a teal shirt with black pants. I feel ugly.
I find my friends, Heather and Nikki, and check my coat. The next move, as predicted, is to get drinks at the bar. I moan about the price ($12 for a double gin and tonic that tastes like piss). Heather gently tells me to quit complaining. She’s right. It’s just that I’m determined to not have fun, and mocking everything down to the nth detail will aid that mission.
“If I see Adam here, I will barf,” I announce. Adam’s the guy I met at the singles party on New Year’s Eve. It was such a holiday cliché…Our eyes locked as I was walking across the Palais Royale dance floor, and like Prince Charming in an Armani suit, he approached me and swept me off my feet. He was gorgeous and hilarious and interested—I was so optimistic I kept him by my side all night, and when the New Year rung in, we celebrated with a perfect kiss.
Clearly my bliss was temporary. After just three weeks of dating, it became clear that all he wanted was a warm body to sit next to him on the couch and sleep next to him in the bed. Underneath our superficially clever banter and constant playschool teasing, we lacked substance. My heart sank when I realized he had already stopped getting to know me. Whenever I tried to open up a discussion, he blocked me with jokes and sarcasm. I decided I needed time to collect my thoughts and identify my feelings about him so I told him I couldn’t visit him that weekend. Things were moving a bit too fast, I said soothingly. He scolded me for breaking our plans. That very night he went out with his friends and met someone else, I later discovered. No words or gestures marked the end of our fling. It just floated downstream like a dead leaf.
But I still reserve the right to barf if I see him.
The person I WANT to see is Sam. He works for the company that organizes these events, and he attends every one. I first met him at the “Christmas Jingle Mingle” at C Lounge which he helped co-ordinate. At first I was just asking him snoopy questions about his job as a professional party boy—isn’t it weird being a matchmaker?—but soon enough I found myself drawn in by his easygoing nature and mysterious sex appeal. I could tell he liked me too, but I didn’t want to make a move on a potentially slutty man who makes a career of chatting up predatory single chicks.
When I saw him at the New Years party, Sam asked me to get a drink with him. I declined because Adam was on my arm, but I wished that I could have frozen time and left Adam safe and sound in a state of suspended animation while I went off with Sam to decide if I still liked him. I know I sound greedy…but when you’ve been single for a year and suddenly several eligible bachelors are giving you attention, you just want to maximize your odds. So tonight, single as single can be, I vow to find him and see if he’s still up for that drink.
I spot him near the door talking to a group of people, as always. I come up to him and say hi. He introduces me to those around him. Then he sees someone he must greet a few feet away and excuses himself, but not before whispering with a smile, “promise you won’t leave before talking to me.” I promise.
Heather, Nikki and I move to the back bar, where we are snagged into conversation with a coupla guys who know each other from church. One is almost cute, but the other seems to have Tourettes syndrome. After five minutes, Heather says we should “go look for Cheryl.” Cheryl is our imaginary friend who is perpetually at the other side of the room. We say bye to these duds and walk towards the front entrance.
That’s when I spot Adam. He’s at the main bar talking to two women. Of course. He looks handsome as ever in his designer shirt. I speed up and nearly knock a few people over in order to pass him unnoticed. I stop and hide behind a pillar.
“Fuck. He’s here.”
Heather and Nikki ask where he’s standing.
“Is that him?” Nikki points.
Heather tells her not to point.
“Jesus. Could you tell I was running from him?” I ask.
They say no, but they could tell I speeded up suddenly. I breathe and reflect on my cowardice. I feel like an asshole.
Heather and Nikki say maybe we should leave.
“No. No. I’m going to say hi to him.”
A few minutes later I leave the girls and trek out alone to find Adam. Now he’s talking to a skinny girl. I approach and say, “So what happened to you?” The girl leaves abruptly.
“What happened to ME? What happened to YOU?” he retorts.
“You quit calling me,” I say, half mock-injured, half actually injured.
“And you blocked me on Messenger. And a week later you deleted me.”
“True,” I say with an embarrassed smile, “I guess you know everything I do online, working in IT and all.”
“I see EVERYTHING.”
We laugh. And then my mood transitions to back to regret.
“Adam, we had potential. You were just so guarded. You have to learn to let people in.” I’m pointing at his heart, and speaking passionately despite myself. He gives me an acquiescent shrug. I shake my head at him.
“Anyway. It’s all water under the bridge now.” I say. “No hard feelings.”
“So were you building up the courage to come talk to me? I saw how you ran past me earlier.” He teases.
I feel sheepish. So I tell him to shut up and I half-slap his arm like a Grade seven with a crush.
“So are you meeting girls?” I ask.
“Yeah, but most of them are too old.”
“I hear that. These guys are older than my Dad! But there’s a few hotties. Like that guy.”
I motion to a tall fellow I had noticed earlier. Adam looks over at him.
The tall guy looks at me and I flash him a flirty smile.
“Ah, Mr. GQ over there? His arms are bigger than mine.”
“Yeah, but you’re probably winning in other departments.” I wink.
Adam laughs.
“Well good luck on your search, my friend.”
“You too.”
I walk back into the crowd. I feel like a warrior. I’m proud I mustered the spine to talk to him despite my inner fear and awkwardness. It was actually GOOD to see him. In a room full of strangers, it comforts me to know that I know him, if only superficially.
I return to Heather and Nikki, both have long faces. Heather says she’s going as soon as she’s done her drink. They aren’t meeting anyone suitable. These guys are too old, too short, too stupid. And many of them are. But suddenly I believe that there are diamonds in this rough. On my way here I hated everyone and suddenly I’m this positive person who really believes in Valentine’s Day, even though it’s just a Hallmark holiday that sets people up for disappointment. I don’t know where this optimism came from—gin, maybe—maybe some hope dislodged when I coughed up the last of my phlegm and it’s now pumping though my veins like an opiate. Or I excreted the last of my joy in the Parisian-style co-ed bathroom, only to have it re-infect me like a friendly e-coli. Maybe it was my pleasant exchange with Adam.
I tell the girls I’m staying for awhile longer. I still have to talk to Sam. And that tall guy. I wish them a good night.
Here comes the tall guy, right on time.
“Hi. You look familiar. Have we met before” I say. It sounds like a bad line, but he really does look familiar.
“You look familiar too, he says.”
I ask if he’s an actor and he reveals that he went to an arts high school, as did I. We end up talking for an hour about the Toronto theatre scene—a topic I rarely get to chat about with men. I buy him a beer because he’s Dutch, and I’ve been told that in contrast to North American tradition, Dutch women often buy drinks for the men. He’s got an intellectual/philosophical nature, a beautiful face and a body that’s a phenomenal 6’6”. I swoon. I write my phone number on a napkin and say I’ve had fun but I should get going. He kisses me goodbye. Through the happy haze I’m aware that everyone is watching me French yet another guy at a singles event. His body against mine, I’m sentient that I am right now forfeiting my ability to attend any more events put on by this party planning company. I officially have a bad reputation.
I get my coat, reapply my lipstick and begin my quest for Sam. He’s talking to yet another group of people.
“Are you on your way out?” he asks.
“Soon,” I respond.
“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s been really interesting. The guy I met on New Year’s Eve is here. We dated for a few weeks but it didn’t work out. I think we’re officially just friends now.”
Then Adam appeared, holding an extra spicy caesar. Maybe it’s the bartender in me…I like the predictability of knowing what drinks people like.
“Here he is! Sam, you remember Adam?” I say.
“Sure man,” and they shake hands. But Sam is already in conversation with someone.
I ask Adam about his car—did he finally get winter tires? That starts off another round of schoolyard teasing. I make fun of his grease phobia. No-one was allowed to enter his Mazda with greasy hands. And then like a scampy younger sister, I asked him to buy me a drink. We move to the bar and a woman standing with her friend compliments Adam’s shirt.
“This is my friend good friend Adam,” I chime in. “He’s got amazing shirts.”
“Oh yeah?” The woman looks interested.
“Yeah, all designer. Dolce & Gabbana. He’s totally stylin’.”
Adam is smiling like a Cheshire cat. I remember when he showed me his closet and modeled his favourite pieces for me the first time I went to his place. I thought he was vain and immodest, but I liked his taste nonetheless.
“He’s a great guy. We met on New Years Eve and we’ve been pals ever since!”
I’m talking with the enthusiasm of a kid’s show host. Adam and I chuckle at our silliness. Our fling has become our inside joke.
And then the tall guy arrives. He gives me a final goodbye, says he’ll call soon.
Adam introduces himself as my cousin, Tom. We find this side-splitting.
I finish my drink and put on my coat. I give Adam a big hug and promise to unblock him from Messenger.
Finally Sam is alone. I tell him I’m leaving and he walks me towards the exit. He stops by the front table to write his cell phone number on his business card.
“Sorry I was distracted by Adam all night. I really wanted to talk to you more,” I felt compelled to say.
“I saw you were also distracted by the tall blond guy at the back bar.”
“Uh yeah. I get carried away sometimes.”
Then I head home. It’s only 10 p.m. but the rainbow of emotions I’d survived throughout the evening makes it feel much later.
My postscript on this experience is: Maybe I blew it by being overly flirty. Leave it to me to chat up Sam—the brain behind this whole hullabaloo—in between kissing the tall man and goofing off with the guy I already dated. They say intelligent animals don’t eat where they shit, so what’s my problem? Then again, maybe the evening was a success because I overcame my own pessimism. I made lemonade with my lemons, and may have delicately spun a rejected boyfriend into a friend. Whatever the case, this postmodern in-the-back-door-out-the-front search for love is totally fucked up. It’s all about multi-tasking and maximizing and diversifying and getting return on my emotional investments. I find myself quantifying, judging, and empirically measuring success based on how many smiles I’ve received, actually and virtually. And isn’t that just the kind of business-thinking that epitomizes Valentine’s Day? But under the crooked corporate cash grab, deeper than the dollars and cents Hallmark rakes in every year, it’s just about celebrating love and companionship in all their bewildering forms.
Hooray!
posted by Jules @ Tuesday, February 20, 2007
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