"Not the marrying kind"
All of this happened smack dab in the middle of my last relationship—the one Mr. Match asked about. Since my ex and I were living together, I had my coveted "we," but no real commitment to go with it. I mistook the comfort of physical presence for something that, prior to that week with my father, I didn't know I was missing: love.
After we split, I discovered the midlife heart takes longer to bounce back; sometimes it tricks me into believing that I'm better off alone.
Regarding the dreaded why-have-you-never-married question, my easy answer is: "I guess I was never ready." But that doesn't cover it. My mother used to say I wasn't the marrying kind—by which I think she meant too serious, emotional and difficult to hold. "It's going to take someone very special," she'd say. I took that to mean I didn't have what it takes to "land" a man. "Not the marrying kind" became a self-fulfilling prophecy (one that likely had more to do with her unhappy marriage than my disposition) that wrapped itself around me in a thick, impenetrable shield to ward off any takers.
Of course, I reveal none of these details to my date. Besides, he says he knows enough about me to meet for dinner; he'll make the reservations and pick me up on Wednesday night. After waiting so long to hear from him, I now feel as if things are going lightning fast.
Too much, too quickly
When we meet at my front door I see an attractive, well-dressed man, the same height as me (so good call on the flats). He greets me with a (little too) warm hug, and once in the car he is already holding my hand. I extract it and tuck it underneath my jacket and purse. Another red flag: There are great restaurants in my downtown neighbourhood, yet he is whisking me onto the highway heading out of the city.
When I was a kid, just after my parents separated, my dad used to arrive unexpectedly to take my sister and me for a drive. I never knew where we were going, or when we'd be back. I'd grown up a little afraid of my dad's gruff voice and quick temper, so naturally I was a little anxious on these drives. Although I later realized this was just his way of spending guaranteed time with us, at the time I felt held captive. That's how I feel in this guy's car: kidnapped. I silently berate myself for not setting up an escape plan with one of my friends.
We arrive at a banquet-style restaurant, ostentatiously decorated with fake bouquets and an arched entranceway to the large dining room—probably meant more for weddings than first dates. My date, hard-working entrepreneur that he is, doesn't drink. So, despite desperately wanting a glass of wine to calm my nerves, I order a sparkling water. He begins to tell me about his life, his two kids and his two ex-wives. I listen as intently as I can while inhaling prime rib, but his story includes minute details of very personal conversations. It's too much information, and also sounds like a practised litany—something he's told in the exact same order and detail many times over. I can't say I'm getting any real sense of who this man is, other than by the sounds of it he's been terribly underappreciated by the women in his life.
