14: The Over-Qualified Bachelor

His profile at the sperm bank would certainly be popular: A soft-spoken Hispanic gentleman who is an experienced surgeon, successful businessman, world traveler, volunteer and community leader; he’s been described as wealthy, attractive, well-dressed, highly athletic, cultured, knowledgeable, kind-hearted and in possession of a great hairline. Great genes, I daresay!

Luis and I met for dinner and drinks at Murray’s last Friday. I arrived ever-so-classily and on time (!!!) via car service, a sweet tip from a dear friend who knows my inability to be punctual and carry cash for parking. Luis was waiting in the bar and walked me to my table, whereupon a waiter bequeathed us with an extensive wine list. Over sips of a Pinot as smooth of silk, we decided on our own version of surf and turf — sirloin steak and a lobster tail that was essentially the size of my head. In steady measures of brief sentences, Luis shared an abbreviated summary of his life story — born in Central America to an affluent family, he had the choice to play on the national soccer team or head to med school. He trudged his way along the narrow path before ending up in the U.S. for his residency after being attacked and kidnapped for driving a flashy, fancy car. Over the next two decades, he settled into Midwestern life and worked his way up to the head position in a prominent surgical unit while acquiring another advanced degree here, a business there. You know, normal stuff.

Although my life story was clearly vanilla compared to his rocky road (I’m talking off-brand, yellowish, gallon-sized vanilla ice cream — not even of the Sebastian Joe’s variety), he was incredibly gracious and complimentary, and picked up the half-my-month’s-salary check. Being the chicken that I apparently am, I did accept his invitation for a second date. Although I was having a good time, I realized it was only because it was interesting, not because I was interested in him — and I politely rescinded via text message the next day like a true Gen Y lady.

I thus present why Date #2 with Bachelor #14 will not take place, which shall henceforth be known as Jenny’s Reasons Why Not. My argument is two-fold and structured as follows:

  • He is 39. There are 5,781,600 minutes between us. Luis is worried about hitting the big 4-0 and walking down the hill. At 28, I’m practically brand-spankin’ new. Heck, my lil’ sis just graduated from college and I still bring my laundry to my parents’ place (okay, maybe not the shiniest of points to make, but I’ll stand by it…). MTV was already two years old by the time my mom got around to popping me out. Luis surely will not be able to relate to my early teenage years, of which the better part were spent dreaming about the middle Hanson brother, reading The Babysitters’ Club and watching Bill Nye the Science Guy. (Man, I was a lame kid.) A wholly-unqualified elementary scientific approach to my self-described ageism is as follows:

  • He lives in North Dakota. Now, before my Fargo and Bismark friends start squawking, please note that this is a simple case of logistics. His practice is firmly stationed in the northernmost Dakota, while my heart remains in Minnie. Even if the date showed signs of promise, this would be a deal-breaker.

It was a fantastic night that knocked me slightly off-center if only as an exercise in reemphasizing what is important to me. Not the lifestyle, wealth or flash… just the guy who will love me in sweatpants, stop me from eating a full bag of Baked Lays in one sitting and gently remind me that I am never again allowed to rent an apartment without a dishwasher.

And, so, I head in a slightly different direction, carefully removing the training wheels that have padded my journey so far. If It’s Just Lunch is bowling with bumpers for dating, it’s time to remove said safety measures and take yet another chance. This time, I’m picking the guy, I’m defining the parameters, I’m in control.

This time, I’m meeting who I want to meet.

Thirteen: The Case of the Serious Mismatch

I am flummoxed, cantankerous and somewhat disillusioned about my matchmaker’s most recent pick of the crop. Having met me in person and listened to a singular diatribe of feedback on my previous 12 or so dates, my ladies who (it’s just) lunch exasperated me with their choice in Jeff…

…Who HUNTS MOUNTAIN LIONS, lives in ALBERTVILLE, which is approximately 45.76 miles from anything remotely awesomesauce, LOVES the win-less Vikings, has NO urge for worldly travel and speaks in an energy-less mOnOtone about his landscaping business. Not to mention that Jeff was slightly to moderately zaftig and glabrous. (That’s a nice clever sneaky way of saying he was overweight and on the verge of a severe balding attack. Don’t hate me.)

The date had so much potential, too, despite the fact that it took place at P.F. Chang’s in Maple Grove, which is approximately and scientifically (I’ve measured) the most furtherest location possible from where I work. Dressed to the nines in the perfect fall dress from Banana Republic’s Mad Men collection, ultra-fresh-for-autumn Essie pewter nail polish and a new Coach clutch, I had a mind brimming with NPR stories and the latest in new music — and was pumped for a night out.

Determined to rid myself of the horrible habit of assuming exactly everything in the metro area is ten minutes away, I slid onto the highway a good fifteen minutes from T-time. (I still arrived ten minutes late after a wrong turn, but don’t worry about it.)

Jeff and I split greasy, faux Asian apps and jumped from conversation topic to conversation topic in hopes of landing on safe, neutral ground. He was ambivalent to my cries for environmentally-friendly permeable driveways and rain gardens, and shrugged off my accusations regarding his murderous hunting habits. Don’t get me wrong — it went both ways. He had no response to my comments on Steve Jobs (legend), Occupy Wall Street (inspiring), Obama’s jobs plan (needed), the latest version of National Geographic on orphan baby elephants (heartbreaking) or the new Jayhawks album (dreamy).

Erudite and bow-tied-bedecked philosophers will often remind us that life ’tis the journey, not the destination. But, I daresay, sirs, that this is wholly inapplicable to the subject of love. In the dear, sweet, verdant land of 10,000 lakes, I’m slowly sharpening my belief that the smart, handsome, passionate, cultured, hilarious, single thirtysomething Twin Citian gentleman is near dinosaur-like extinction. (Side note: Please feel free to go ahead and prove me wrong.) But, on the hopeful, sunshiny days, I stay true to my belief that if I am patient, open and kind, I will one day tap my toes and Mr. Wonderful will be there at my beckoning — equipped for my idiosyncratic personality and complicated, bleeding heart.

But, hey, that’s just about enough curmudgeonry for one sitting. I shan’t lose sight of the greater things in life — family, peace, equality and superbeautiful fresh flower arrangements — and will tuck myself into my pillow-top, heavenly bed with The Shipping News, the Cults and the ever-hopeful promise of tomorrow.

XOXO

Eleventy Twelve

I should have known the date was ill-fated when I woefully ran out of Moroccan Oil in the preparatory stages. But, geesh, let’s not be overly dramatic.

I met Brent at Spill the Wine last Saturday, which turned out to be a bubbly, brilliant and beautiful day in bright-eyed Minneapolis. Brent was from Moooooooooooooooooose Lake (correct pronunciation; incorrect spelling) and an auditor by day, seemingly boring man by night.

I had just barely made it to the date itself. The parking lot of the restaurant was closed off for a wedding and I found my cashless self digging in the dusty depths of my car for a quarter or two to stave off a parking ticket while I dined. I then proceeded to teeter up to the main door in my overly-pointed heels, praying I wouldn’t biff it in front of the vacillating dudes valeting the wedding shin-dig with nary an interest in helping a poor girl out.

Brent and I spent the majority of our date discussing, no joke, Sarbanes Oxley. SOX is essentially legislation that came to fruition after the scandalous likes of Enron corporate greed and whatnot, and represents the current driving force in financial reporting, so you can only imagine the entertainment level achieved at our dining table.

As much as I enjoy meeting men in a similar field to me, I, by no means, have any interest in dating a number-crunching auditing fellow. I already lovingly satisfy my deep affection for numbers all on my own, thanks — I want someone to challenge my horizons and respectfully push my boundaries. Maybe he is an entrepreneur, artist, teacher, traveler… just not another anal, crazy, type A++, order-craving individual such as myself. Because that would be simply combustible. No offense to me or anything.

(I need a place to champion the men I am meeting. They are successful, driven, quality people with whom I may not have a chemical connection, but who should nonetheless be celebrated as quality men worthy of dinner and a drink, even if I harpoon them in an earlier write-up…)

Before we close: Date #12, aka Jeremy #2, was an animated, bright-purple-shirt-wearing Oregon transplant who… who… mistakenly questioned my pronunciation of “edamame” and. And. … Gosh darn it, I’ve forgotten anything else definitive about the date… except for the scrumptious Salut french fries and my polite jettisoning at the end of the date. #isoundlikeaheartlessperson

It’s all part of the adventure and the experience, right?