Read Online I Love You and I'm Leaving You Anyway by Tracy McMillan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracy McMillan
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to check out his outfit. There’s a green vintage dress shirt, which I’m liking, topped with a corduroy vintage casual overcoat. Nice start. His bottom half could use some work, though. He’s wearing “designer” jeans, which (unfairly) I have a terrible prejudice against, even though I own a dozen pairs. I’m partial to slightly oversize Levis 501s on men. Anything else seems vain. Like they succumbed to a Diesel ad, unconsciously hoping they would get that Amazonian Brigitte Bardot–lookalike chick if they wore those jeans. And his shoes—a zip-up ankle boot with a little too much heel—are also a bit suspect. But the rest of him is pretty cute, so I decide to let it go.
At the café, there’s a line, so we stand in it.
He starts telling me about his four-year-old son and the “great” relationship he has with his baby-mama, who is also “really great.” I’m not thinking that if it was really that “great” a relationship they’d still be in it. Nor do I know yet that he would regularly like to murder his ex and that she would like to murder him right back. I won’t find that out for a while, and by the time I do, I’m pretty sure that, since my love is so awesome, it will all get resolved.
We get our coffees and sit down at a table near the window. He’s jabbering—literally—about the presidential election, John Kerry, and the primary, but I don’t think this is because he’s obsessive. To be honest, I’m not really listening. I have a borderline hand fetish, which means I’m paying an inordinate amount of attention to his fingers, which are long and slim (but not pointy), the kind I like, maybe because mine are thicker and more square. His nails are dirt free and clipped to the quick, which I’m also partial to. I can just tell he has good handwriting.
The “discussion,” quite frankly, is one-sided and boring, and he hasn’t really asked me anything about me yet, but I don’t think this is because he’s narcissistic. He also has a strange quirk—he punctuates his conversation with cartoon noises, like woo-hoo! or hee-hee, said in the manner of Dudley Do-Right on a day when he was doing wrong. It’s kind of annoying, but I don’t think it’s part of what noted psychologist Donald Winnicott would say is an overdeveloped false self. Or in this case, possibly underdeveloped.
It’s time to do something else, so we walk over to Amoeba Records, one of the world’s biggest (and noisiest) record stores. It’s much too loud for conversation, but we do wander around the store for a little while. I buy the new Cat Power record, and then he walks me back to my car. Absolutely nothing eventful happens—standing in the long line at the record store doesn’t count—but on the way back to the parking lot, I do notice that I kind of like the way he walks. There is a jauntiness and certainty to his gait—like he knows where he’s going and he’s determined to get there.
That said, the date is a disappointment, really. I mean, for a guy I fell in love with at first sight, online.
“Well, thank you for the coffee,” I say, a little relieved to be getting into my car. “I had fun.” I did have fun, I think. But I’m honestly not sure I want to see him again.
“You’re welcome,” he replies with a slight bow. “So, does that mean that I may have another date with you?” He slips into a purposeful formality (hello, Freddie? Is that you?), which I don’t think is a tad manipulative.
Something about me wants to say yes. (Maybe it’s just that he asked?) “Sure,” I say, hesitant to disappoint.
“Great,” he says, beaming. “I’ll call you.”
Later, after I put my kid to bed, I spend the evening on the phone with my various girlfriends, telling them that I’m not sure I want to date this guy. “He was kind of weird,” I reason.
“Oh, he was just nervous.”
“But he didn’t ask me about me at all!”
“Guys talk about themselves on first dates; that’s just
At the café, there’s a line, so we stand in it.
He starts telling me about his four-year-old son and the “great” relationship he has with his baby-mama, who is also “really great.” I’m not thinking that if it was really that “great” a relationship they’d still be in it. Nor do I know yet that he would regularly like to murder his ex and that she would like to murder him right back. I won’t find that out for a while, and by the time I do, I’m pretty sure that, since my love is so awesome, it will all get resolved.
We get our coffees and sit down at a table near the window. He’s jabbering—literally—about the presidential election, John Kerry, and the primary, but I don’t think this is because he’s obsessive. To be honest, I’m not really listening. I have a borderline hand fetish, which means I’m paying an inordinate amount of attention to his fingers, which are long and slim (but not pointy), the kind I like, maybe because mine are thicker and more square. His nails are dirt free and clipped to the quick, which I’m also partial to. I can just tell he has good handwriting.
The “discussion,” quite frankly, is one-sided and boring, and he hasn’t really asked me anything about me yet, but I don’t think this is because he’s narcissistic. He also has a strange quirk—he punctuates his conversation with cartoon noises, like woo-hoo! or hee-hee, said in the manner of Dudley Do-Right on a day when he was doing wrong. It’s kind of annoying, but I don’t think it’s part of what noted psychologist Donald Winnicott would say is an overdeveloped false self. Or in this case, possibly underdeveloped.
It’s time to do something else, so we walk over to Amoeba Records, one of the world’s biggest (and noisiest) record stores. It’s much too loud for conversation, but we do wander around the store for a little while. I buy the new Cat Power record, and then he walks me back to my car. Absolutely nothing eventful happens—standing in the long line at the record store doesn’t count—but on the way back to the parking lot, I do notice that I kind of like the way he walks. There is a jauntiness and certainty to his gait—like he knows where he’s going and he’s determined to get there.
That said, the date is a disappointment, really. I mean, for a guy I fell in love with at first sight, online.
“Well, thank you for the coffee,” I say, a little relieved to be getting into my car. “I had fun.” I did have fun, I think. But I’m honestly not sure I want to see him again.
“You’re welcome,” he replies with a slight bow. “So, does that mean that I may have another date with you?” He slips into a purposeful formality (hello, Freddie? Is that you?), which I don’t think is a tad manipulative.
Something about me wants to say yes. (Maybe it’s just that he asked?) “Sure,” I say, hesitant to disappoint.
“Great,” he says, beaming. “I’ll call you.”
Later, after I put my kid to bed, I spend the evening on the phone with my various girlfriends, telling them that I’m not sure I want to date this guy. “He was kind of weird,” I reason.
“Oh, he was just nervous.”
“But he didn’t ask me about me at all!”
“Guys talk about themselves on first dates; that’s just
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