By SUSAN ANN CONNOR
The lights were dim. The cell phones no longer competed with fabulous Frank on the sound system. Only our wine glasses remained on the rose-colored table cloth.
Then, it happened. Tim put his arm over the back of my chair and stared straight ahead. There was profundity in the air. Or, so I thought. Suddenly he spoke, slowly and methodically, “You know Susan, I wake up in the morning, and I look in the mirror, and I say to myself, ‘I like Tim. I like the way Tim walks, I like the way Tim talks. I... like...Tim.’”
Hmmmm, I pondered, as I took a swig of water to wash down Tim’s moment of self awareness. I choked, naturally, and excused myself to go to the ladies room, where I decided I didn’t like the way Tim talks. His walk was OK, but his talk was not exactly what I was looking for.
Instinct suggested bolting out the back door. I’d had enough of Tim. The entire evening had been all about Tim, Tim, Tim. A fleeting fantasy occurred of being safely home, in my sweats, watching Charlie Rose and finishing that piece of chocolate cheesecake. But as I stealthily headed to the exit sign, my intellect kicked in, recommending I head on back to Tim, bloody bored as I was.
And I could hear my mother’s voice inside my head reminding me to mind my manners. My manners? Sheeesh — what about his? He hadn’t stopped talking about himself since we got there.
“Never mind his, mind your own,” I heard her again.
All right, all right, I whispered to myself as I turned toward Tim. It was probably a good idea anyway, since one of my current employers fixed us up. I wasn’t going to let the outcome of a bad dating experience get in the way of my income. So I returned and tolerated Tim.
This was a first date, and I had gotten way too much information about my escort within the first hour of our conversation. (Note to Tim: Dr. Phil says, “Don’t share everything on a first date.”) When he called a few days later for a future rendezvous and to tell me he was thinking “soulmates,” I responded in the only way I could. “Tim, I’m afraid that first date was also our last.”
I relayed that decision kindly, but he warned me that I would be sorry. So far, I haven’t been.
I called Clare after my date with Tim feeling the need to share. She was amused and empathetic at my being caught in the dating web with a loquacious narcissistic boob. Prior to her marriage, she had her own experience on a blind date with a similar sort of boob. He showed up, she told me, with several of his short stories and proceeded to read them out loud in the dining booth, without even a scant, “Do you mind?,” or “What do you think?,” or any other sign of social etiquette.
Apparently, this boob factor is not confined to just men. Women can be boobs, too. Well, you know what I mean.
Anyway, my long time male compadre, Jack, complains of the boobness of certain females. When I asked him why he thought people behave this way, so unaware of the other person, he took a psychological shortcut and merely said, “It’s a mystery, babe.”
It certainly is a mystery. Each of us have our own shortcomings, our own gifts and reasons why we are the way we are. BUT... if you are going to date, at least learn to listen. Ask questions. Everybody has a story. You might even find their story as fascinating as yours.
A very wise old man once told me, “Learn to take the attention off of yourself and put it on the other person.” Once you do that, you open up to a whole new world outside of yourself. The focus can be mesmerizing and downright inspirational. Then if things go well, the other person might pick up on it, reciprocate and actually be interested in you, too. What a balanced concept! Lalalala... (Susan Ann Connor).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 20, 2004. Read the original PDF.