The Thing with Feathers

So last night Hope, that elusive thing with feathers, flapped conspicuously around my tent. I was bored with TV and hadn't talked to a single person all day besides waiters and the man who sells me newspapers, so I went on Match to see if I could turn up a few new candidates. And what I found was that Match has some function I hadn't noticed, in which one candidate is flagged as "special for you," or silly words to that effect.

Sure enough, when I looked at this guy, I was excited, I have to admit. He is about my age, lives in Manhattan, over six feet tall and not bad-looking, agnostic, and liberal -- check, check, check, and check. What he wants in a woman is brains, culture and liveliness. Not to be immodest, but check. His background is in journalism and he's interested in politics and the world --double check. Where has he been all my life? Plus he writes well, probably the best-written profile I saw.

So I wrote a snappy note, insisting that I am the One. I only do this when I'm really interested, and gratifyingly, he responded immediately, with flattering things to say about my looks and profile. The check-check-checks were flying, apparently on both sides! He suggested I call him, anytime between 7 and 11 pm. It was ten o'clock and I considered waiting till the next day, so I could warn him first about my desire for short conversations before meeting, but I knew I would think about it too much and get my hopes up. Better to call right away and see. So I did.

First I asked where he lives: turns out he is mere blocks from where I am. WOW!! This is my dream: separate apartments but lots of opportunities for spontaneous company and cuddling. But then it immediately, and I mean immediately, tumbled downhill. I couldn't get a word in edgewise or directly, as he rambled on in such an overblown and blurry way that I couldn't understand half what he said. Frankly, I thought he might be a little drunk. I couldn't see this supposed conversation going on for too long, but still, he was so great on paper, maybe it was just that some people aren't great on the phone. I asked if he wanted to meet for breakfast or lunch.

There was a long pause and then a disapproving tone: "Hmm. I'd like to find out more about you first." I didn't think he was going to find out much this way, so I fibbed and said it had been a long day and I was tired, could we just meet? Well, he'd meet for coffee, but not breakfast or lunch, because he doesn't like to eat and talk at the same time. Oh....okay. Whatever. So we made a date for coffee at the time convenient for him. The Hope Bird was winging to more distant forests at this point, but you never know. He seemed peculiar, but as I've said, I think I'm pretty peculiar too -- the telephone thing, for instance.

First thing this morning, an email from him written right after we spoke: "That brief telephone call left me with no enthusiasm for meeting. Best wishes on finding a guy who is both right for you and will appreciate your rushed lifestyle. That's not me."

So not wanting to listen to him talk without interruption is evidence of my "rushed lifestyle"? I think I can safely say that not having asked a thing about me, he knows nothing of my lifestyle, rushed or otherwise.

I was kind of relieved, as well as disappointed. Then I went back to that terrific profile and noticed this: "If you've taken five or ten years off of your age, or lied about anything of consequence, either reveal the details in your first email, or avoid me, as I despise pathological liars." And this: "Serial first-date dinner-daters, please note that I keep permanent reservations at the exotic Grey's Papaya, just for you. If your purpose in being here is to secure free meals, I'll take you instead to a supermarket and treat you to a cart-full of food you can prepare for yourself at home." How could I have not seen these red flags, whose tone predicts so well the controlled nastiness of last night's email?

Bye-bye, Birdie.