JOSIE
On Friday night, just as I’m about to head out the door on a Match.com date with a physical therapist named Pete, Meredith texts with a last-minute plea to babysit and a rant about a lying teenager. I hesitate before I write her back, actually considering the request because, frankly, I’d rather spend the evening with Harper than make small talk with a random guy, even if his profile picture is pretty cute. But I decide to soldier through with my plans because you just never know when you could be canceling on your future husband.
I do, however, decide that this will be it. My final, last-ditch, Hail Mary date. If things don’t pan out with Pete the PT, I’m officially done. Admitting defeat. Throwing in the towel on a traditional family and life. I’m not sure what that means, exactly—whether I’ll up and move to Africa to do my own goodwill work, like my faux beau Jack, or whether I’ll go the sperm bank, single mother route. But I won’t continue on this futile path. I’ve made such claims before, but this time is different. This time I really mean it.
I repeat all of this to myself as I drive up Peachtree on the way to meet Pete, realizing that I feel no pressure whatsoever. In fact, part of me actually wants the date to outright suck because a bad date is better than a date rating in that murky six-out-of-ten gray area—just enough to get your hopes up, hopes that are inevitably dashed by the second or third date, when you discover that he’s actually a four or five. Or worse yet, you determine by your second or third date that he’s really an eight or nine or ten—which is pretty much a guarantee that he’ll never call you again.
So instead of giving myself my usual pre-date pep talk, I focus on my preliminary petty criticisms of Pete the PT. For starters, there’s his overuse of emojis, our thread littered with cartoonish outbursts, including the decidedly dorky “thumbs-up” followed by a glass of red wine after confirming the details of our date. Then there is the matter of his Facebook profile picture: a close-up of a black cat (which I only know because he broke one of the cardinal rules of blind dating by friending me on Facebook before our date). And finally his choice of restaurants tonight is Brio, a generic Italian chain—not a bad place for a meal per se, but definitely lame for a first date. Incidentally, the old desperate-to-get-married me would be searching for excuses for Pete, such as: (1) Emojis signal lightheartedness; (2) Highly evolved men, who don’t need to be fawned over every second by a dog, tend to like cats; and (3) Brio is next door to Barnes & Noble and he also suggested that we peruse the store after dinner, a further sign of his enlightenment.
But that was the old me. The new me says here goes nothing as I pull up to the valet, then walk into the restaurant. I immediately spot Pete sitting at the bar wearing the red polo shirt he texted me he’d be wearing (followed by a winking emoji). He is looking down at his phone, which gives me a few seconds to scrutinize him and form a first impression. He isn’t a heartthrob by any stretch, but he is at least as cute as his photo—unfortunately a solid seven. I can’t tell how tall he is, but he has an athletic build and a strong enough chin to offset his slightly receding hairline. As I remind myself that his chin doesn’t change the fact that he picked Brio, we make eye contact, and he waves. I approach him with a smile and nothing to lose.
“Josie?” he says, standing when I arrive at the bar, confirming a height of about five-nine, maybe five-ten. He has a nice, deep-enough voice with no detectable accent, though I know from his Match profile that he is from Wisconsin. I like his teeth, and I really like his smile, which raises him a half a point.
“Hi, Pete,” I say.
He asks if I’d like to stay at the bar or get a table. I start to say I don’t care, but then choose the bar; if the conversation becomes painful, we can always include the bartender—a little trick I’ve learned along the way.
“So. It’s really nice to meet you,” Pete says as we sit on our stools and angle our bodies toward each other. I hang my purse on a hook under the bar, and am careful not to make knee contact.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, noticing the cleft in his chin. A plus, which I remind myself is really a minus.
“Glad this finally worked out,” Pete says, referring to our scheduling difficulty over the past few weeks.
“Me, too,” I say, and on a whim decide to share my observation that he’s in the minority camp of looking better than his profile picture.
“That’s funny,” Pete says. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
I smile back at him and say, “Always better to undersell, right?”
He laughs and says yes, good point.
“But while we’re on the subject of photos,” I say, “may I offer you some advice on your Facebook profile pic?”