The League
“Oh, that’s a lovely phrase,” he responded. “Spanish is such a pretty language.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I told him. “But I think I made that one up.”
--
Somehow all of my conversations with strangers eventually turn to dating. They all want to give me advice.
“You will find someone, you’ll see,” my taxi driver assured me in Puebla.
They all say that. “I guess so. It’s hard to wait sometimes.”
He went on, “Sometimes when we’re single, we feel bad because it seems like everyone around us is paired up. It’s uncomfortable to go out alone – it feels like there is more social pressure than actually exists.”
“What do you think? Should I go out looking, or should I wait?”
“It’s not bad to look, but I think we often make the mistake of going to a bar or somewhere. I mean, the type of person you are looking for is more professional, more mature. Try somewhere more interesting than a bar.”
--
I signed up for an "exclusive" dating site. As I told my mom, "I'm looking for a good husband, not a crappy one."
The site is called The League. You know it’s exclusive because they have all sorts of rules. You must have precisely 6 photos, they must be “high-quality.” Each profile is (supposedly) individually screened. When I signed up in July, they weren’t yet open to Portlanders. I was added to a seemingly interminable waitlist. "You're number 3512 of 5198," the app informed me unapologetically.
I'm not sure why any so-called exclusive dating site would let me in. Like Groucho Marx, "I wouldn't want to belong to a club that would have me as a member." If they let me in, it can't be that exclusive. My current incompetence at dating is well-documented and fully searchable on the internet.
And yet in early November when they finally opened the doors I got a surprising notification. I was in.
--
The first guy I messaged was the first guy I asked on a date. “Low-key weirdo with my shit together,” his profile promised. He’s 30 years old, works in tech but has a degree in anthropology. A nerd with a conscience. We met at restaurant on 42nd, I got there early and sat at the bar.
He had his hair done and was wearing a collared shirt. He was quiet at first, but slowly opened up. We talked about the normal topics - work, family. My first thought was that maybe he wasn't interested. Now I think the initial quiet was nerves.
Somewhere amidst the early chit-chat – what do you do for work? are you from here? how many siblings do you have? – he began to offer me depth. His last job was a dream job, but didn’t offer enough life balance. He offered a glimpse of the passion he had for the position. He’s the oldest with all sisters, and had endearing stories of them.
We talked through two drinks before switching to beer. At one point he was telling me a story - something very interesting – and I tried to look cute as I took a gulp. Somehow it went down the wrong tube and I started coughing uncontrollably. I tried to swallow it down and blinked hard. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Ye-" I tried. Cough. He just waited. A few more swallows, then a couple more big coughs. I spun off the bar stool and darted for the bathroom door directly behind us. Locked. "I think someone is in there..." he offered. I returned gracelessly to the bar stool. "Take your time," he told me. Three more sputters and another big swallow, then the initial mortification passed. "Continue," I managed to get out. He was unphased.
--
The bar was closing around us when we finally stood up. “My friends are inviting me out on Alberta,” I told him, hopefully suggesting that I am popular and in high demand. He brushed past my plans easily. "Can I make you an Old Fashioned at my place?" he offered instead.
He mixed the drinks before pulling out a box. "I'm very competitive," I warned him, "it's not cute." He taught me how to play Set. I beat him. "That was very nice of you to let me win," I told him. "I wish I could say I had," he laughed.
"This was really nice,” he told me, as he drove me back to my car at the end of the night. "It's just - there are so many bad first dates… The League, huh?" he mused.
--
Another pretty face and challenging mind. He texted me by 11 AM the morning after our date.
“That person will come when you least expect it,” my taxi driver told me. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time?
Soundtrack this week:
Mushaboom, Feist
Helping the kids out of their coats
But wait the babies haven't been born oh oh oh
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