Lucky #9

It's been a year since I updated this blog and I must admit, I feel kind of guilty. For a roller coaster of nine dates, you readers have been a part of my life. It is only fair that you should know what I'm up to now - and who I'm up to it with.

Basically, it all comes down to the fella from date #9. When I met him, I met someone special. True, I did go on a few dates after our brief encounter (he lives in London after all), but no one compared to L.

I've been dating him long distance for over a year now, and despite the not-living-in-the-same-city problem, it has been great. We have amazing chemistry and a fantastic time whenever we're together.

He is that pinch yourself, it can't be true kind of guy. Even today, I can hardly believe I've found someone like him - I'm talking borderline Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire. This one's a keeper.

And I owe a lot to this blog. Opening myself up to all the men who asked me out - and writing about it - helped me gain perspective. Even on a mere nine dates, I learned a lot about who I am and what it is that I really want in a relationship.

Now, number 9 is my lucky number. I ask you - what is yours?

From here on, this blog is open to all the women out there willing to share their tumultuous dating experiences.

You - stop calling your bff and unloading the deets of your last awful/amazing date and share it here, with our eager readers.

We want in on your experience because, in some small way, they will help explain what it is that makes us 'click.'

Interested? Message me.

Day 2: Drinks with a friend

It’s an uncharacteristically sunny March day in Amsterdam, so when D. calls to invite me for a beer in the sun, I couldn’t turn him down. We meet at a casual after-work bar and watch the sunset over a few Heinekens. I know D. already, he’s a mutual friend who I run into here and there, but we’ve never had a one-on-one. Qualifies for Date Two, I think.

D. is tall, jovial, and as thirsty as I am, making for a lively conversation. We’re both freelancers, so it isn’t long before we’re talking business and I’m pleasantly surprised with some of the professional insight D. shares. Instead of secretly composing this 100 Dates post, I’m actually writing notes with tid bits of advice D. is dropping in my lap. Being ignorant to my work woes, I’m sure D. didn’t realise what a boost of confidence he had given me for the week ahead – though I’m sure the beer did it’s share as well.

As the pub turns baren around us, I start to feel an awkward moment materialising. I just know D.’s going to say something serious or (worse) heartfelt. Then, almost on cue the bartender offers us a plate of bar snacks on the house – perfect way to soften the mood. While we put away the greasy finger foods, I take a moment to reflect on our date. Why is it that as soon as I feel a heartfelt confession coming, my flight instinct takes over. I’m on a date, am I not? Isn’t this the point, to get the guy to like you?

For some reason, that’s the opposite of how I feel. Sure, I want the guy to like me, but not like me like me. Between bites, I look at D. and wonder what my problem is. He’s successful, funny, closer to me in age than S., and actually interested in what I have to say. But again, that chemistry thing isn’t happening. Maybe I’m being picky, or letting superficiality get the best of me (that’s a big nose, buddy) but I just don’t feel something special.

Then again, maybe the idea of a ‘spark’ is like a night in shining armour – it doesn’t exist.

These thoughts mill around in my head when we get another round. The conversation picks up again and we launch into friendly gossip about our mutual acquaintances. After a few minutes (or a few beers…) D. starts fidgeting and getting a little serious. After a confusing round of apologetic excuses he comes out with it, “It’s okay of course, I don’t care or anything,” - oh goodness, here it comes – “You’re a lesbian, right?”

Wow. Not what I was expecting. I do my best to convince D. I am indeed not a lesbian, despite his supportive “It’s okay if you are.” According to D., I’m “a lot like him,” and while I’d agree we have similar jobs, and tend to rely on sarcasm/humour as a deflector I do draw the line at a mutual romantic interest in women.

The final sips of our last round go down, and we pick up to leave the bar. I’m by no means offended at my sexual “enigma” as D. calls it, but I think we’re both ready to head home now. Our goodbye is short and sweet (think slap on the back, nod of the head), and we head off to our respective homes.

Wow, I think later, lesbian, eh? What was I saying about a boost of confidence? Where's the chocolate ice cream...

Day 1: Friend of a friend

Friends know you best, right? Well, that’s easy to believe until they set you up on a date.

So, I was nervous about letting my friend set me up with S. But, from her description - Charming, funny, sarcastic – I thought he couldn’t be too far from my ‘type.’ So, I gave her the okay to set things in motion and before I knew it I had a dinner date for 20.00 on Saturday night at Nam Kee, the famous little Chinese restaurant in the Nieuwmarkt.

A gentleman from the start, S. offers to pick me up (on bike), but I decide instead to meet him at the restaurant. He was a bit put off by this, and it made me wonder - was it wrong for me to prefer a rendez vou at the restaurant rather than have a date pick me up at home? Have I lost touch with the romantic days of past where a date greets you at your door, flowers in hand? Maybe….I haven’t even gone on the date yet and already I’m learning something!

At 20.00, we arrive nearly simultaneously at the restaurant, and I take in S.’s classic grey hair, well tailored suit as we head inside to our reserved table (maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the ‘casual’ look…)

S. is Dutch and although his English is near perfect, he apologises continuously. I can’t imagine how hard it is to date in your second language, but he is doing a fine job. I wonder if it’s less his language skills than his nerves doing the apologising.

We begin with the usual Chinese tea and a few shared words about our day. Though I know the restaurant, and what I’d like to eat, S. surprises me by objecting to my order of Shanghai shrimp and noodles (“I don’t like to order noodles out,” he says). So, he takes the lead and orders our dinner himself.

We share a dish of baked salmon (his) and beef with veggies (mine) as S. talks about himself. He is an incredibly interesting man who has done a number of fascinating things in his life ranging from antics as an anti-fascist youth squatter to teaching ceramics to psychiatric patients. As I listen to his tales but can’t help my mind drifting - Do I like this guy? Do I like this food? Will we get married? There is nothing wrong with S. but I’m feeling a certain lack of spark, if you know what I mean.

When dinner wraps up, we’re discussing his mother’s aggressive attitude (“My mother is mean,” he tells me) and I’m still waiting my turn to share.

Then, S. suggests a round of warm sake. Good choice as we have a few mugs and launch into a deeper discussion of life and mediation – finally, a conversation I can add to! But due perhaps to the depth of the topic, or the cosiness of warm sake my eyes start to feel heavy and I realize its 23.00.

Three hours seems a good mark to end dinner, and we get the bill. He kindly pays, which was agreed on before dinner (“I’ll pay,” he told me, “and I don’t expect anything from you.” A relief, I guess). He offers to accompany me home and we set of biking side-by-side to my house. At the door, I expect to encounter an awkward-goodbye but it was nothing like that. I thank him for dinner and we exchange an affectionate three kisses before he rides off.

A lovely finish to a lovely evening, if perhaps an evening without chemistry.