Nubze

I do not usually view my cycling as an occasion to meet women. However, this past Saturday an opportunity presented itself and I blew it.

Spencer was with his mother (my ex-wife) so I went out for a ride. I had never ridden over the Ballard Locks before and they beckoned me this Saturday. I wasn’t sure of the course, but I decided to give a try. Hopefully, I wouldn’t lose the bike route and end up riding on the freeway, or 15th Avenue, which is more dangerous.

The locks require bike riders to dismount and walk across. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to take a picture with my cell phone. As I was lining up the shot, I noticed out of the corner of my eye another cyclist waiting patiently behind me. Not wanting to be a rude obstacle to her passage, I motioned for her to pass me. She was wearing a tight red top made more appealing by the enhancing effect of the slight breeze.

After crossing the locks, I hopped back on my bicycle and proceeded down Market Street. Waiting at a red stop light, I heard a voice behind me ask, “Have you ever been to the locks before?”

It was the Red-Shirted Woman. I noticed she was by herself. She looked more fit than I remembered from a few minutes before.

“First time by bike,” I said. “Me too,” she replied.

“Now, I just need to find the Burke-Gilman Trail,” I said. She pointed down the road and I thanked her as I took off down Shilshole Ave.

Less than thirty seconds later, as I was peddling towards the trail, I realized I had just missed a great opportunity. An attractive woman who shared at least one interest of mine, talked to me of her own volition. She was interested, but I was so clueless I missed it. What a dork, I thought.

I looked behind me, hoping I could see her still at the intersection, or by some miracle, riding towards me. But, alas, she was gone. I wondered what she was thinking of our exchange as she rode away down Market Street. Maybe I could back track and try to find her. If I did catch up to her then what would I say? Excuse me for being a moron. That would impress her. Yeah, right.

As I continued on my way, I kept asking myself why I took off like a scared rabbit. Was it because I am self-absorbed, or – gasp – I’m afraid to talk to women? No, no, can’t be that. My self-image is based on being a guy, not some timid, furry creature. And, yet…

For the rest of my ride, I replayed the scene at the intersection and berated myself for not coming up with something more witty than, “where’s the Burke Gilman.” I could have asked her where she was riding, or if she rode much, or complimented her on her rack, er, I mean bike. Ok, maybe those lines are not that witty, but they’re better than what I actually said. Why did I say something that made me feel like I am Patrick Star?**

I never thought that along with my water bottles and Clif bars I would need to carry a phrasebook with me on bike rides. How dorky is that?

** Watch Spongebob Squarepants

I am sitting in Tini Big’s, a bar in Seattle. Whenever I sense the door open, I turn and look at the person entering. If it’s a guy and he looks back at me, I quickly divert my eyes. Wimpy, I know. But, if a woman walks in, I stare in an effort to match the face to an online picture in my memory. I am waiting to meet someone I’ve never met before, except online.

This one could be her, I think. No, wait. She is waving at some friends sitting on the other side of the bar and proceeds over to their table. Too bad, she is pretty attractive.

Yep, I’m a bit nervous. I feel like I am on a blind date. I wonder if this woman I am to meet is super thin, or fat, or has a third arm that doesn’t show in the headshot on her profile. And then, of course, what will she think of me? Will she recognize my face? Will she stand me up? The dating scene is familiar yet unfamiliar. I feel like a salmon swimming upstream to the spawning pool, only to realize I’m in the wrong river.

Soon after my divorce was final, I set up a profile on Match.com. At the time, I thought this online dating thing was great. Twenty bucks a month and all these women: didn’t have that when I met my ex-wife over ten years ago!

Back in pre-marriage time, I spent a lot of time in bars, at parties, and in supermarket lines, trying to meet someone ‘special.’ It took time, effort, and money. But, now I have the internet. This should be easy to find someone fun and interesting and at least as good looking as my ex.

Nothing is as easy as it first seems.

I take another sip of my beer and I am thinking back to what got me sitting here at the bar. Sassy224 sent me a message. She liked my profile and from what I remembered, she seemed interesting. But, she lives in Poulsbo. I live in Seattle and I do not want to have to take a ferry and drive 30 miles for a date. She is definitely G.U.D. (Geographically Un-Desirable). My profile states I am only searching for someone within the city, please. Sorry.

I think of Handlergrrl, who sent me a wink. Geesh, you’d think she’d have posted a better picture than that. I couldn’t even tell what she really looks like. And, she’s into Oprah. Nope.

And so it went, until I saw Sunnygirl’s message.

Sunnygirl looked promising. Her photo had a bright smile and her profile said she bikes and skis regularly. Weight: about average. Career: healthcare. I thought maybe she’s a doctor. I replied with a ‘like your profile’ message. Sunnygirl sent me another message wanting to know more about me. We exchanged emails. Her messages were witty and a bit sarcastic. I liked that. We decided after a few back and forths that there was enough interest to meet.

And, now I am sitting at a bar, anxiously looking at the door each time it opens. Half of me hoping it is not her. If she doesn’t show, I won’t have to figure out what to say in order to sound witty and smart. That quote by Abraham Lincoln keeps running through my head, “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.”

The door opens, again. It might be her, I’m not sure. She recognizes me and comes straight over. “Alphadog123?” she says. Hearing my username spoken out loud I realize I must change it.

When I am nervous, especially meeting someone for the first time, I do one of two things: I either clam-up and remain silent – Abe’s suggestion; or, I talk incessantly. For some reason tonight, my mouth chose to remove all doubt, much to my brain’s disgust.

“Did you find the place ok? Oh sure you did; you’re here. How was work? They have killer martinis here, would you like one? How about those Mariners? Do you like baseball?” So I ramble, barely catching my breath in between my inane questions.

My mind knows exactly what my mouth is doing, but it is not stopping the damn thing. My mouth keeps going on and on, like the Energizer Bunny. I leave my body and observe myself from another corner of the room. In wonder and amazement, I am thinking, “What happened to that suave, debonair, smooth talking guy I dreamt myself to be?“

Sunnygirl had had enough of Abe’s fool and bid me adieu. As soon as she left, I reached over and grabbed the Permamarker from the bartender’s glass of writing instruments. Tomorrow morning when I look into my mirror, I want a reminder of what happens when I don’t follow Mr. Lincoln’s advice.

An hour after Sunnygirl had sat down at the bar next to me, I am exiting alone with a big L on my forehead.

As I walk to my car, people are staring at my forehead with a smirky wonder. For some reason, this doesn’t seem all that different from my dating life before my marriage. I’m just a little older, but clearly, no more the wiser.

Maybe I should try speed dating. You’re supposed to talk fast there, right?