So my date with Steve last night…?

Standing in the middle of 3rd Avenue and 89th, I wondered if I had the right place. No, it was definitely the right place. Oh, maybe I was supposed to meet him inside…? I walked in, told the hostess I was meeting someone and sauntered through the entrance trying to look as un-self-conscious as possible without looking like I thought I was hot shit (a very hard look to pull off, by the way). No one really looked up so I kind of backed out of the room; I hid my embarrassment by trying to look as un-phased as possible (again, not an easy task).

On my way out I passed a smallish guy of Indian descent. I assumed it was Steve, my date, because he looked like I felt: confused and awkward. “Hi, I’m Hannah,” I smiled and put out my hand. “Steve,” he smiled back a little tensely. Nice teeth, good smile. He’s pretty cute I thought. At that moment I wished I’d actually taken the time to blow-dry my hair instead of letting it be “curly.” Oh well, I would win him over with my charm and wit.

The bar, a loungy bar called Uptown, was overcrowded with young girls in low-cut strappy tops and chubby middle-aged men in business attire or freshly ironed Polo shirts. Steve wasn’t chubby, but he hadn’t changed out of the office clothes yet. I assumed work had gone late and he’d come straight here. He made a move for a seat at the bar, but there were none. I held back to see how he planned on remedying the situation. Uptown had been his suggestion. Eventually I proposed we get a table because there were plenty of them. He hesitated. “But then we have to get dinner… or… I don’t know.” His eyes darted around the room and, seeing that he seemed highly distracted and confused, I decided to take control of the situation. I flagged down a waitress and asked if we could be seated even if we weren’t getting food. As I already knew, she said yes and brought us to a table by the bar.

Once seated, I hoped that Steve would relax a bit. And despite my initial annoyance, I was excited about getting to know him better. I learned that he’d fallen asleep after work in his work clothes and “just woken up.” Huh, I thought, I guess I should be relieved because maybe his behavior was related to his still being dazed from sleep. But the fact that he rolled out of bed to come meet me and didn’t even leave enough time to change into a freshly ironed Polo shirt struck me as a bit odd and mildly offensive. We each order Coronas. I planned on it being my only drink because I’d recently come to the realization that I was beyond the age where alcohol and late nights forgive me in the morning. Nowadays late nights and alcohol = bad headache, bad mood, and really freaking bloated. Seeing as the conversation was almost non-existent, I almost brought up hangovers as a topic but decided it was better to stick with the basics.

Steve told me that he worked in Stamford and does the “reverse commute” (meaning out of the city, rather than into it, for work). He works long hours and has to wake up at 6:00. Now the nap was making a little more sense to me. Later it came out that he only needs 3 hours of sleep each night and an hour-long nap after work to function. He said he never has a lot of energy, but he’s never really tired. Besides my obvious (obligatory) shock at the possibility that one could get by on half of the recommended sleep amount, there didn’t seem to be much to say so I waited for him to come up with something else. He didn’t. Usually during these conversation lapses people look anywhere but at the other person. In this case, Steve looked right at me. I had to think quickly. “So where are you originally from?” I stammered. “What do you mean, ‘originally’?” He responded quickly, sounding defensive but unsurprised. Before I could clarify that I was not assuming he was first generation American, he said “My parents are from India, if that’s what you mean.” Taken aback, I was silent for a second. “Well have you always lived in this part of the U.S.?” He shook his head and told me his family was from Colorado. That’s all I was asking buddy, no need to get weird. Great. My proposed topic led us to yet another, even more unbearable awkward halt in conversation. This time it was broken by the sound of Steve getting a text message. He looked at it, laughed, and put the phone back in his pocket. Clearly some annoying college buddy wanted to know if Steve “thought he was gonna score!”

Cool. I’m tempted to ask about the text, but end up just smiling and ordering a second Corona (a decision that was driven by a lack of willpower and a hope to lessen the social discomfort).

Steve was on his third beer so I thought he was about to finally loosen up a little. He told me about his job at the hedge fund and how he hated going to brunch. (Brunch is one of my favorite things so that was kind of the last straw.) While he was in the bathroom for the SECOND time (once you break the seal, I guess…), I asked the waitress to bring the check. The date had gone on way too long already. He sat back down and studied the check for what was a disturbingly long time. “He cannot be serious,” I thought. He handed it to me. “You owe about $15.” So annoying! I dug through my wallet to see what I had. I hadn’t even WANTED that second beer. As I was doing this, he got another text and read it. I laid down a 10 and two singles. “That’s all I have, sorry.” He said, “It’s fine” in a way that made it seem like he was doing me a huge favor and pocketed the cash (he paid the bill with his black Amex). We headed out the door and parted ways.

“Nice to meet you.” He waved. Tears of frustration almost welled up in my eyes. Did he think I was interested? He was the most boring person ever! But I didn’t want to show any sign of anything that could be construed as upset. I just smiled at him and waved back, “Thanks…” I said “for, for the couple dollars.” He looked sort of stunned. Good, I thought, at least I sort of put him in his place.

So the night was a waste. I spent two exhausting hours trying to converse with a guy who was uninteresting and uninterested. My two hours are gone, my 12 dollars are gone, and I am two beers drunker than I want to be. At least I didn’t waste time blow drying my hair.