"You're not going to get married until your 48," my French friend Jean told me last night. He wasn't trying to be rude. But he wasn't smiling when he said it either. He meant it. And it hurt, because it dawned on me that he might just have a point.
I'd told him that I was considering giving Lea a second chance. On our first and only date I took her to The Terrace, a flat-packed-looking restaurant incongruously plopped into the centre of Lincoln's Inn Fields.
I discovered two things that night: that if you go to Lincoln's Inn Fields on a Saturday night you'll see more stretched Limos than you're likely to see turning up at the Oscars (it's the only place in town where there's enough space for them to park); and that there's nothing wrong with being a schnorrer.
You see, I'd taken Lea to The Terrace not because I'd heard a rave review. But because I had a 50% off voucher from Time Out.
When we arrived, I let Lea sit down at the table. Safely out of sight, I whipped the carefully-preserved voucher out of my pocket and handed it to the waitress. The food was fine and the atmosphere okay (I thought it was smarter than it was, told Lea, and she'd turned up wearing a sexy black number). More to the point, though, I saved £27 that night! Lea didn't suspect a thing - she had a good meal and I didn't feel out of pocket. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Alright, so if she'd found out she might not have been impressed. But dating's expensive, ok!
Lea was sweet, reasonably pretty and coquetishly nervous. Her broad smile, though, was too gummy (I only like to see teeth when a girl grins).
She was Greek, from Salonika, a stone's throw from the village that my mother's parents hailed from. Our great-grandparents probably played with each other in the playground at school. There was a certain poetry about our meeting.
I took her home afterwards. But I didn't call her again. Why? I just didn't think "it" was there. And if it's not there, then I usually don't waste my time again. One more crossed off the list. One step closer to finding "the one".
But then Lea texted me on my birthday. A fully three weeks since we'd spoken. Someone that thoughtful - and interested - deserves a second chance.
Jean's comments only reinforced my feelings on the matter. "You're looking for a carbon copy of you," he told me. I couldn't argue with him. Instead, I remembered the countless occassions I'd been out with perfectly decent girls - pretty, intelligent, feisty - yet I'd let them get away because "it" wasn't there on the first or second date. I expected us to click.
I remembered Vanessa the French girl (beautiful, sweet, can't even remember why I gave up on her), Cecilia the Uruguayan (the only girl I feel I've "made love" to since I lost my virginity - she moved abroad); and Rachel, the North Londoner I'd kissed once and never called again. By the time I realised what a witty, pretty, fun-loving thing she was, she was already with someone else. She's now married, as are the other two. In fact, as I joked to my Yanky friend Emms (probably the only person who reads this blog!) the other week, I think I'm a lucky charm for women - going out with me is the surest way of guaranteeing that they'll be married within six months. Just with someone else. If it wasn't so true it'd be funny.
I'd told him that I was considering giving Lea a second chance. On our first and only date I took her to The Terrace, a flat-packed-looking restaurant incongruously plopped into the centre of Lincoln's Inn Fields.
I discovered two things that night: that if you go to Lincoln's Inn Fields on a Saturday night you'll see more stretched Limos than you're likely to see turning up at the Oscars (it's the only place in town where there's enough space for them to park); and that there's nothing wrong with being a schnorrer.
You see, I'd taken Lea to The Terrace not because I'd heard a rave review. But because I had a 50% off voucher from Time Out.
When we arrived, I let Lea sit down at the table. Safely out of sight, I whipped the carefully-preserved voucher out of my pocket and handed it to the waitress. The food was fine and the atmosphere okay (I thought it was smarter than it was, told Lea, and she'd turned up wearing a sexy black number). More to the point, though, I saved £27 that night! Lea didn't suspect a thing - she had a good meal and I didn't feel out of pocket. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Alright, so if she'd found out she might not have been impressed. But dating's expensive, ok!
Lea was sweet, reasonably pretty and coquetishly nervous. Her broad smile, though, was too gummy (I only like to see teeth when a girl grins).
She was Greek, from Salonika, a stone's throw from the village that my mother's parents hailed from. Our great-grandparents probably played with each other in the playground at school. There was a certain poetry about our meeting.
I took her home afterwards. But I didn't call her again. Why? I just didn't think "it" was there. And if it's not there, then I usually don't waste my time again. One more crossed off the list. One step closer to finding "the one".
But then Lea texted me on my birthday. A fully three weeks since we'd spoken. Someone that thoughtful - and interested - deserves a second chance.
Jean's comments only reinforced my feelings on the matter. "You're looking for a carbon copy of you," he told me. I couldn't argue with him. Instead, I remembered the countless occassions I'd been out with perfectly decent girls - pretty, intelligent, feisty - yet I'd let them get away because "it" wasn't there on the first or second date. I expected us to click.
I remembered Vanessa the French girl (beautiful, sweet, can't even remember why I gave up on her), Cecilia the Uruguayan (the only girl I feel I've "made love" to since I lost my virginity - she moved abroad); and Rachel, the North Londoner I'd kissed once and never called again. By the time I realised what a witty, pretty, fun-loving thing she was, she was already with someone else. She's now married, as are the other two. In fact, as I joked to my Yanky friend Emms (probably the only person who reads this blog!) the other week, I think I'm a lucky charm for women - going out with me is the surest way of guaranteeing that they'll be married within six months. Just with someone else. If it wasn't so true it'd be funny.
posted by David Cohen at 7:12 pm
1 Comments:
Yes, I'd have to say that you are pretty picky- takes one to know one. Do you ever think that by not calling the other girls back that you're not giving them proper closure? Do they even call you back? Oh and the coupon thing- it's not wrong. It's smart. :)
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