Thursday, July 30, 2009

Date Number Three: The Russian Yogi

I meet a guy and I think I know him enough about him, but I don't really know him until a situation arises that shows his true colors. I need something to test his mettle, or my own in this case. My Russian yoga partner and I met in a free yoga class in Riverside Park and continued to run into each other at other yoga classes, so it was inevitable that we began to talk for a while after class. We hadn't gone on a official date per se, at least not until now.

He was a raw foodie, meaning he doesn't eat anything cooked - ever! Everything has to be organic and unprocessed, things such as raw vegetables, raw fruit, steak tartar, nuts, and raw grains instead of pasta or bread. It's an unusual lifestyle choice and "Yogi" wanted to introduce me to some "raw food" so I was about to find out the length and breadth of how unusual his lifestyle was.

He picked me up near my job (plus half a point for the car since it's a "smart car") and we drove down to Bonobo's by Madison Square Park for some raw food. I am amazed that a place like that exists and makes enough money to survive. We ordered raw pineapple and coconut pies, the crust of which was made out of chopped nuts and dates, and some raw coconut water. He wanted to sit in the park to eat and chill. The pie was cold and good and crunchy, and the coconut chai juice was somewhat drinkable if not tasteless (plus a point for twigs-n-berries food not entirely sucking).

I decided not to hold his lifestyle against him, and we were talking about his childhood in Russia and his interest in wrestling, when he started going on about the gay men in wrestling. Then he mentioned his "theories" on why some men are gay. Some crazy quack scientist said that being gay is the result of imbalances with the pituitary gland and "Yogi" believed this guy. Er, what? Oh my. So I told him my sister is a lesbian and he said, "Oh, well most women are gay because of some horrible experience with a man." I am seething inside but I must be polite, "No, that wasn't her experience," I tell him. "Well, something else must be wrong with her," he says.

Oh no. You didn't.

Minus, minus, minus points ad infinitum for even suggesting such a thing you underdeveloped primate. I am gay-friendly, obviously, and fairly livid. I think he senses my annoyance and quickly changes the subject, so I let the conversation continue and we get up and stroll around the park until I'm calmer. We sit down again and he has his arm on the bench behind me and, after talking for a while, he wraps his forearm around my neck and is forcefully pulling me towards him for a kiss. I squirming to avoid this dude's puckered lips, trying to manuever myself out of a chokehold that this neanderthal has put me in. "Dude!" I yell at him in the middle of the park, once I wrench myself away. "You can't do that! I'm a fucking girl! That shit hurts." Fortunately, I'm not in pain, but if Stone Cold Steve Austin was there at that moment, I'd make sure that he'd deliver the stunner to this yahoo.

I am also secretly wondering if "Yogi" is gay (plus a point if he actually is).

No really, it all makes sense. The homophobia, the 'wrestling' moves, the smart car. I pointedly look at my phone and tell him that I have to get home to get some work done, but he wants to have a drink. And now I know I am a fool, and too good of a sport, and too good for him. So we head over to the bar Live Bait, which is what I am feeling like at the moment, and we have a drink. He orders white wine because he can't drink beer (it's processed) and now I'm sure he must be hiding in the closet.

The icing on the cake, so to speak, were his final words of parting. I gave him a hug goodnight (He is - now past tense - was my yoga partner so I had to be kind and polite) and he said, "You have a birthday coming up, right? I hope you're not expecting anything because I don't do birthdays."

The fact that I was going home alone was enough of a present. So now I have to find a new yoga partner. I think I'll pick a girl this time. Does that make me a lesbian? I'm telling you, this is dating in New York. I could not make this stuff up.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Date Number Two: The Nice Jewish Boy

I met "Pete" at a party for volunteers, as I regularly do volunteer work through many different programs. This assured me that he was at least a decent, sane, and caring guy although he could possibly be doing volunteer work as a sleazy way to pick up decent, sane chicks. However, I didn't get that impression.

When I first met him he seemed a bit quirky and he said he played a lot of golf, which was a bit of a turn-off. Not so interested. Dads play golf. Bankers play golf. Lawyers, and movie stars, and high rollers play golf. I hadn't written him off yet but I didn't think we had a whole lot in common.

He seemed interested in me and we kept talking, and he said he was a lawyer and Jewish, which is fine, but made him a double no-no in my book. Not only did he have an intense, time-consuming career, he was bound to have a Jewish mother who would make it point to see it that her nice, Jewish boy got married to, or at least considered marrying, a nice Jewish girl. I've already been there and done that, and had my heart broken by "the nice, Jewish boy" so I was reluctant to go any further. I started talking to the other volunteers at the party and got a bit tipsy and overexcited when a director of marketing at Scholastic said she could send me a copy of an upcoming YA novel "Lips Touch". I was bubbly and ecstatic and when I gave my contact info to the marketing director, "Pete" asked for my e-mail too. I gave it to him, thinking that he wouldn't e-mail me (we're too different, after all) but after a few weeks of e-mail exchanges he asked to meet up.

It turned out that we both wanted to see the new Highline Park (Plus one point for cool idea), and since they just opened up a large section of it, we decided to meet there. I was discouraged when he said "we'll see what happens after that" because he left things open as to whether we would be having a drink or not and I knew that he was being a chicken and leaving himself a bailout plan. (Minus three points for assuming that I'm not fun to hang out with.)

We meet at 23rd and 8th and as I'm walking towards him, I am smiling. (A) Because he's cuter than I remembered (plus a point), (B) because I forgot that he has gorgeous eyes (plus another point) and (c) because he obviously went home and got changed after work, making an effort to look nice. It's kinda sad that my standards for a good date have sunk so low that looking nice and showing up are pretty much all I expect these days. I also forgot that he was about my height and, as I was wearing heels, he ended up having to lean up a bit to kiss me on the cheek. We walked in Highline Park as he asked a lot of typical first date questions and he was attentive, funny, and perhaps a touch cautious and wary, something I totally expected. Still, I guess things must have been going well because he proposed getting some food and drink, which I took as a good sign. We stopped off and checked out a few places in the meatpacking district, but as I'm not a trendy, upscale bar kinda girl, I didn't really want to hang out there.

He was really cool about it and took my preference into consideration (plus five points) and thought of a divey bar nearby called The Rusty Knot. To the owner of the Rusty Knot, I hope you hear the sexual undertones in the name of your bar, as in "Yar, a drunken pirate just violated me rusty knot!" The bar was nautical themed, making me feel like a drunken pirate myself, and we had a fun time goofing off and putting plastic mermaids on the model battleship in the center of the bar. I made "Pete" order and take a huge bite of a chicken liver/bacon sandwich, which he then dared me to try, and for the record, chicken liver is absolutely disgusting, if you ever get the urge to eat it.

After we left, he walked me back to Christopher Street because it was getting late and we both had work in the morning. I know they say don't kiss and tell, but we kissed and I'm telling, but that's all that happened although I'd be happy to see him again if he calls. Part of me worries about this, because I don't know if I could take a Jewish guy seriously again. I think I'd always be afraid of never being fully accepted. I am the exact opposite of what a nice Jewish mother wants: dark, ethnic, catholic, unusual, not to mention I'm from an underprivileged background.

If "Pete" doesn't call, well then, I promised I wouldn't take things too seriously and think of it this way, at least I don't ever have to play golf.