#2: Canada

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?