I’m afraid to even write this blog, as this date was too perfect, and usually that’s a red flag. Oh well, I think we can all use some good news, and quite frankly, this date was a breath of fresh air I needed desperately.
We met for drinks on a Sunday night – conversation was effortless, attraction was mutual, chemistry was off the charts. He asked quickly for the 1st official date, and we met on a Tuesday night at a five-star French restaurant.
He sent me a text earlier in the day: “four hours and counting..”, but after 5 years of ho-hum dates and “kind of” relationships, I was skeptical this could go as well as our first meeting.
I arrived dressed to kill, he was waiting at the bar with our favorite wine poured. His smile took my breath away, and to my surprise, I was actually nervous. Our laughter came quickly though, and in the 1/2 hr we talked before dinner began I knew we had potential – a lot of potential.
He ordered the tasting menu and wine pairings for us, and we dove into conversation that covered everything from love and life to politics and religion. No subject was taboo, and our mutual honesty and directness was surprising even to me. For six hours we couldn’t take our eyes off each other, and I’m sure the wait staff was wondering if we’d ever leave the restaurant.
The food and wine was exquisite, but the company was far better. The night ended with a long passionate kiss in the rain, and plans to see each other soon.
The next day we talked, both giddy with excitement. I was on cloud 9, but soon after racked with nerves and worry. Would it last? Were we moving too fast? Did I open up to quickly?
He will never know how many times I stared at the phone, willing it to ring with a text or a voicemail. Within 48 hours I was sure I could not do this, afraid of actually feeling something real for someone, after all these years, I just was not ready for the uncertainty. Yet as we talked, I grew more secure, knowing he was as nervous and hopeful as I.
We had to postpone our next meeting until after January when he returned from Christmas – he had wanted to meet this weekend or early this week before he left, but I had scheduled eye surgery last Friday and could only offer up a tentative answer for maybe Tues or Wed.
Of course my eye surgery was a longer healing time than I had expected, even now I type this under a haze of blurred vision, knowing I will simply have to wait to see him again – literally and figuratively.
Until then, I am back to being frustrated – what seemed to be moving too fast is now at a complete standstill, and I am, again, staring at my phone like a ridiculous school girl.
I hate this part. I don’t care how much he told me that he loved every moment with me, it doesn’t comfort me to remember his numerous compliments, or ardent pursuit. All I can think about is, why hasn’t he called lately? Did he already lose interest? When can I see him again? I fight myself when I want to reach for the phone – I remember our conversations, the “catch” with hin is he’s a workaholic and women get frustrated by his lack of constant communication. I won’t be that woman, I won’t get clingy, and certainly not this soon. But I hate this part, I really hate this feeling of hopefulness and insecurity.
However it turns out, it was the perfect date. I have never – in my life – had such a picture perfect evening. Whether this is the start of something meaningful, or just a great date that gives me hope that this kind of chemistry is even possible, I don’t know yet. So I wait. And stare at my phone.