.no hard feelings.

i went out with the short guy last night. after a bizarrely fated chance meeting and possibly the longest chain of schedule-negotiating emails in the history of half-hearted dating, i got it over with. i went out with him.

what's more significant than the date, if not as interesting, is the entire day that i spent paralyzed with anxiety on my couch, with a hot water bottle and a pint of haagen daaz dulce de leche and the entire sixth season of sex and the city. i am terrible with anxiety. it's uncanny, my ability to swell up with inordinate amounts of anxiety about every tiny event in my life. i spent most of yesterday having a heart-pounding argument with myself: it's just a date. not even a date. a date is dinner or a movie. this is a drink. just one beer. but oh god, all i can see is opportunity for horror. where will we go, first of all? i can only handle a bar that is dark, with booths, and a wide selection of draft beers. i need there to be at least three ipa's to choose from. that is what i am comfortable with. and when i walk in -- how late should i be? -- will he already be there, or will i be first? and should i wait at the bar, have a seat, order? or should i sit at a booth? should i face the door, or away from the door? will he recognize me? that's silly. i always think that people will not recognize me, or when i call them and say, "hi, it's julie," they will pause for a good three or four seconds and then say, with irritation, "who?"

but of course he will recognize my face. my question is will he recognize me if i sit away from there door. probably yes, he will figure it out. i should sit a booth so that there will be sitting, and distance, and a table between us. and no awkward standing, and facing each other, and people looking at us and thinking, "that man is shorter than that woman."

that's how it goes. and goes.

my sister called later that afternoon, shortly after he called me to finalize plans. "he sounded so nervous," i told her. "i mean, i'm nervous too, but i don't act nervous."

my sister agreed. "i know. i mean, by the time you're in your twenties, you think you'd have your shtick figured out and you could handle calling a girl to make plans."

i must not have mentioned that he's slightly older than me. "yeah, you'd think by your forties you'd have at least that much figured out."

"WHAT? he's in his forties?!"

the age thing is much less of a problem for me than the height thing. this is evidently not the popular attitude.

i finally got up off the couch twenty minutes before i was supposed to meet him, at seven, at the dive bar down the street. not the one that's closest, that i go to most often, and that i like the best. i suggested we go to the slightly less convenient, less cool bar. i don't want anybody to see us.

i brushed my teeth, futzed with my hair, put on some blush. i tred on my usual going out clothes, shirts with a bit of a neckline that show cleavage and fit snugly. jeans that are tight in the ass. then i took them all off and put on a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt and a hoodie, sneakers. it was something i would wear to school in the eight grade, comfortable, mother-approved. i was going for ugly. my phone rang and i chatted for ten minutes, not bothering to say i should probably go, i'm about to be late. and at seven on the dot, i jogged out the door and headed to the bar, boyish, frumpy, and frowning.

he was there first, sitting at the bar and halfway through a beer. i didn't even need the knitting project and book that i bring with me every where i go just in case, god forbid, i am alone and don't know what to do with my hands. i said hello, sat down at the next stool, and ordered a shot of whisky, neat, with a beer back. i drank it quickly and it went straight to my head. in all of my anxiety, i forgot to eat dinner.

i'm a nervous talker. i started talking immediately and didn't stop for an hour. i talked about my job, how hard it is to quit smoking, my ugly couch, my friend's baby. i talked on and on about the most mundane topics and didn't pause for him to contribute to the conversation. it's an awful nervous habit, talking too much, but i couldn't seem to turn it off.

he seemed bored, confused, possibly annoyed with my antics. it didn't take me long to get drunk. i was shitfaced by eight o'clock and slurring words. we were talking about movies, and i was a caricature of a drunk lady, like in that episode of friends where rachel gets drunk on a date and realizes she needs to get closure in order to get over ross and throws a man's phone
into the champagne bucket. i kept saying, "have you seen that movie? what's it called? what's it called? WHAT'S IT CALLED?" only drunk people do this, repeat themselves like this, louder and louder without giving any more information.

i looked at his legs hanging off the bar stool and wondered what they would look like in bed, if i would notice that they were short, smaller than mine. i'm five foot seven and i have long legs. this guy is all torso. i won't be able to handle it.

he was the one to finally call it a night. at 9:30 sharp. i wonder if he did that because i'd been staring at the clock all night, not because i was bored, but because i didn't want to forget to go to bed at a decent hour on a sunday evening. i was about ready to say, sorry, buddy, but i need to head home to bed, when he finished his beer and said, "i think it's about time" or something to that effect. at this point, i had been loaded and rambling for about an hour, not to mention neurotic, badly dressed, and unable to make eye contact for the whole night. it occurred to me that this guy was not that into me. he wanted to leave early, he didn't make a single attempt to touch me or act flirtatious. dude was not into me.

this was perfect. i'd achieved the effect i was going for. we had no spark, no chemistry, and it was mutual. i was elated. i also had the spins.

i woke up this morning with a hangover fit for a saturday. i made coffee and left it on the stove because the smell of it was repugnant. then i sat at my kitchen table eating low-fat cottage cheese out of the container very slowly in hopes that i could keep it down and that it would prevent me from barfing. when i got to work, after a particularly dizzying and hot bus ride in which i didn't get a seat and accidentally managed to punch myself in the face when the bus slammed on its breaks, i kept my wastebasket very near. just in case i might hurl at
my desk, within earshot of my boss.

i was so pleased with myself to be in the clear, to have endured the dreaded date and to have arrived at a blissful state of mutual disinterest. no one is to blame. no one is guilty. it's just not
meant to be. he won't call, or if he does, it will be after a few days, and with some lame apology. and i'll say it's okay, i'll see you around. and he'll tell the story of his bad date with the 26 year
old lush, and i'll tell of how i'm a basket case who can't handle dating and i have a height complex. no hard feelings.