So, over the Christmas vacation I started talking with this guy on
Tinder. Aside from his recent temporary
exportation back to Canada, this guy seemed absolutely perfect. BS’s, MS’s, and PhD’s from all the
right schools… founder of a successful Ed Tech company… close with his large, seemingly
morally-grounded family… 34 and willing to joke about elopement (something that
typically sends the average, Bay Area male running for the hills no matter how
clear it is that you’re joking).
I was a Canadian stepford wife ready to happen.
Flash forward to Wednesday. Canada is back in the Bay and we set a time to grab a
drink. Now… I’m going to start by admitting that I blatantly ignored some pretty glaring initial red flags: his
crazy-eye that didn’t show up in any of his 1x1 inch Tinder photos, but did
show up on his Facebook profile (you know the look I’m talking about - when the
eyes just scream *I’ve either killed a hooker or at least spanked the bottoms
of some of my ex girlfriends way too hard.*) …His response to my mention of
pursuing a PhD of my own which went something like, “Well… since I already have
a PhD and a successful company, you wouldn’t really need to do any of that.” …His equation of my profession to his
time as a Grad Student Instructor which, I’m sorry, but holding office hours
for a handful of self-selecting Ivy League undergrads is fathoms away from teaching
middle schoolers with emotional disturbances in east Oakland. (No
offense to my current or former GSI
friends out there… your work sounds like a whole nother level of “What
the fuck?”
and “Nope” I can’t even begin to imagine, but still.) …And his response
to my *running a few minutes late* text: “Take your time. No changing, though.
I want to see you in your cute little work clothes.”
So, upon reflection, I was kind of
asking for what came next...
I walk in the door and am immediately met by crazy-eye who
is definitely much older than 34 and patting the bar-stool next to him that is
conveniently placed about a foot closer to his own than the rest of the
stools in the bar. Within the
first 10 minutes he had already ordered the dish I was going to eat (even after
I'd said I’d already eaten and was adamant about the fact that I don’t like
mustard), and had corrected my grammar twice.
I don’t remember much of our initial conversation - probably because I
was too busy wincing at the inappropriate number of times he touched my arm,
lower back, and bare thigh - but I do remember his response when I told him I
was thinking about applying to nursing schools:
“Oh! So you’ll
have almost completed the holy trifecta?... You know: teacher… nurse… airline
stewardess…”
I don’t know the exact words that came out of my
mouth in my
black-out state of rage, but given that the next thing I remember was
the bartender
handing me a shot I hadn't ordered while laughing so hard she was
snorting, I’m
sure it went something like ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME DID YOU REALLY
JUST FUCKING
COMPARE MY FUCKING CAREER TO A FUCKING FLIGHT ATTENDANT? And also
probably
something about his business pursuits being the equivalent of the
computerized
flashcards I teach my students to make, something about the pretentious,
egocentric, and useless nature of a PhD, and something about his
misogynistic use of the term “airline stewardess”.
You’d think being verbally assaulted on a first date would
be a checkmate for a guy, but not Canada.
He got up, picked up my phone (which was sitting upside down on the
counter), and said, “I’m borrowing this.”
WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU
DOING WITH MY FUCKING PHONE? “Going
to the bathroom. This is so you
can’t run off before I get back.”
At that point, what else is there to do but order another
shot, give the bartender money for half the bill, wait for your phone to get
back, and walk out the door without saying another word?
