After date #17 (my most favorite number and it’s a prime at that), I’ve arrived at what may already be a foregone conclusion — I haven’t yet checked the annals of history — but which I’ll underscore here: small-town guys need small-town girls.
But first let me rewind a bit…
There I sat in a roomy booth at Stella’s awaiting the arrival of Ryan. I was slightly out of breath having just walked three blocks to avoid paying for Uptown parking, and felt only mildly unkempt for a weeknight date in dark, skinny jeans, tall Optiz-purchased boots and a cozy, but fitted sweater with a big, funky neckline. I was attempting to smooth down my flop of curls that had become decidedly messy while simultaneously checking for happy hour specials when Ryan meekly approached the table. He was tall, quiet and plainly dressed with a gold necklace roped around his neck that seemed entirely out of place. He was a shy, soft-spoken man that I immediately took a protective liking to as one would a wounded animal.
Determined not to overwhelm the conversation by chit-chattering away as I would normally do in awkward situations, I quietly glanced over the drink menu. After a moment, Ryan said he was going to go with a Bud Light, and biting my lip, I disclosed that I was hoping they still had Summit Octoberfest.
After ordering, it was quickly determined that Ryan was a dyed-in-the-wool small-towner from the upper limits of Minnesota. Only a sliver away from Canada, he grew up in a teeny-tiny community with a entire population less than my high school, and spent his time hunting, studying, working in his dad’s shop and likely cow-tipping, I’m assuming. (Let me pause here to state that there is absolutely nothing wrong with small towns, the people who populate said small towns and the general small-town lifestyle. In fact, I know — and like — several small-towners so don’t go calling me a
populist city-ist? metropolist … person who hates small towns.)
Moving on, Ryan moved to the cities a few years ago and worked at a property management company since it was virtually impossible for him to be gainfully employed in real estate given current market conditions. He was nervous and quite quiet so I asked painless questions that would hopefully put him at ease, and found out that he was planning to eventually move back home after gathering up some savings, even though he didn’t dislike city life. He liked rap music and loved country music, but didn’t go to concerts. He liked going out to eat, but didn’t have anyone with whom to grab dinner. He wanted to travel outside of the Midwest, but hasn’t. And a few other things I have since forgotten.
Basically, by the time the date ended, I just felt really bad for him. He carried around a sad look in his eyes that I left me a bit brokenhearted. We split the check — he paid in cash, me with a credit card — but he misunderstood what was going on, thinking I was paying for the full amount and ended up leaving no money. At this point, I was so flustered by the date itself that I didn’t realize he hadn’t paid a penny until we were out the door. We had shorted the waitress half the bill, which made me feel even worse so that by the time I was home, I was practically crying.
Taking a deep breath, I decided three things: 1) clearly I am way too sensitive to wounded animals and the like, 2) I am most certainly not right for a meek man, and 3) in general, people who grow up with a small worldview need someone who wants an equally small life. Score one for the Birds of a Feather Flock Together team (which I’m assuming is a real thing that exists).
Sincerely hoping Ryan finds a lady that suits his lifestyle, I cracked open The Zookeeper’s Wife, turned on the fan I can’t sleep without and read away all of my stress.