The Perfect Date
It was our second date.
“He told me to meet him at this random Lower East Side gallery. I was fairly ambivalent about him, but now I’m curious. If you don’t hear from me by 9pm, sound the alarms.” —I remember joking with my best friend Sarah over the phone as I rushed to apply eyeliner and slide into my leather jacket—the jacket that was already fraying from that 'second year-in-New York-constant-wear' type of thing.
The date was perfect. As an art history major, currently employed at MoMA, I was in awe that he was able to walk into a trendy gallery downtown, joke like old friends with the gallery director, introduce me to the artist who was literally live painting on the walls, and even lead me downstairs to the gallery storage below. As I ran my finger down the spine of 7 foot tall beautiful, modern, white frame, I was keenly aware that my leather jacket felt old and cheap—but I had never felt cooler. From there, we went to Dirty French, a swanky hotel bar I had only heard of, and he proceeded to order a slew of appetizers, the chicken entree for two and a bottle of wine that was far from my “two buck chuck” budget. I was just two days shy of 25, and he knew this. Yet, even when I insisted that I didn’t want dessert, the waitress came over with the most delicate cinnamon donuts with flaming candles. The most thoughtful gesture. Again, absolute perfection. But I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
This was one of the many dates that I went on while living, and dating (and yes working, but dating, too, always felt like a full time job) in New York City. I remember it distinctly for its perfection— if it were a resume it would immediately be pushed to the top of the stack. Perfect on paper. But the date itself would have never made it past a preliminary phone screen. I cannot remember his name, let alone his occupation, nor could I remember a single topic of conversation. Again, the date was seemingly perfect, the person was far from it.
Fast forward three years later, I’ve committed myself to a summer of “no dating”, talked myself into an unassuming boys weekend in Montauk and am eons away from this glitzy evening on the Lower East Side. The moment I walk into the house, I am met face first with a 6’4” guy in bright red WalMart brand swim trunks, a goofy smile and a southern accent that I couldn't help but notice immediately. He said he worked in road construction and didn’t know the MoMA from The Met. He wore a bucket hat and Tevas to the swanky pool club we went to the next day. There was no first date, no second date, nor any resemblance of a normal dating period, rather drunken nights in a bunk bed and deep conversations over one too many Montauk Ales in the course of a weekend’s time. When it became apparent that he wasn't joking when he said he changed his flight out of LGA so he could stay the night with me, I knew the gut feeling in my stomach wasn't a fluke. I knew that he wasn’t only perfect—he was absolutely everything.
Dating is a clusterfuck, and there’s really no rule book on life, or a set of directions on how we should play our cards to get to the happy ending. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s the moment we stop trying to pencil it all in, stop checking all the boxes and crafting the perfect resume, the moment that seems a little less glamorous—it’s in those moments, or even just that one moment, that we're often stopped dead in our tracks. And those moments are the ones that can change your life forever.