I think I mentioned once that I would settle for a Duke or an Earl in lieu of a Prince, but having met this Earl, perhaps I shouldn’t settle, and instead hold back for the real thing.  Earl had reservations about meeting up, which he voiced in a long-winded message on my answering machine the night before we had plans.  You see, he had only ever talked to my answering machine, and I to his.  I’m a very busy person, and an unfortunate side effect of that is that you had better love me, love my answering machine.  I always return phone calls, but not always at the best time.  Earl thought this was weird, but I figured that there was nothing that we could talk about on the phone that we couldn’t talk about in person.  His reservations, in fact, were making me wary.  Jump in with both feet, and don’t be afraid to get wet.

Earl had picked a couple of possible locations, all in my general neighbourhood, that he was willing to make the lengthy commute in from the suburbs to come and meet me at.  We decided on a neighbourhood jazz club to catch a band after some supper there.  I had never been there, despite having walked past it for years, and my brother and his wife had happily dined there in the past, so I decided that this would make a fine date spot.  So on a rainy weekday night I meet my earl in the foyer.  He’s tall, gangly and geeky, normally attributes I find charming in a guy, but somehow, it’s just not working for him.  He’s wearing a terrible shirt, a grey short sleeved button-down covered in a strange static linewave pattern that looked like he bought it in the Dixie Value Mall.  Not that I judge guys based on their wardrobe, but there are some things that say volumes about a person, and his choice in clothes on a first date is one of them.  If he cares about his appearance, it is important, but if he has no clue, it’s tragic.  Anyways, we sit down, order some wine, and peruse the menu.  It’s apparent that he has no clue about wither, but I think it’s charming that he is putting in the effort.  He orders a run of the mill Seafood Linguine and a glass of Chardonnay.

And then the terrible happens.  Bread arrives.  He tears into it, butters it and takes a bite.  And had butter all over his face and crumbs all over his shirt.  He doesn’t really notice it, but then again, butter and crumbs are light, right?  You might not notice them.  But pasta sauce, linguine remnants, shrimp tail segments… the list continues.  His entire meal at one point or another ended up somewhere on his face.  This was rather unattractive.  I found it impressive that he didn’t even notice, or alternately, didn’t seem to care.

About a half hour after dinner, and an hour into a thoroughly uninspired conversation that prove to me that not only did we have nothing in common, but that he really had no interests, no motivation and no sparkle, the band started.  And what a so-called treat that was.  A mediocre cover-band, we were treated with funkified renditions of George Michael’s Faith and several Stevie Wonder classics.  He loved the band, and moved around the table to sit next to me, he said in order not to have to crane his neck to watch the show.  Not that I thought they were worth watching.  And not that there was any chemistry between us to justify this little move (the food and the shirt had taken care of that).  If you have seen more than, say, 5 live bands, I don’t know how you could think that this was a good show.  But alas, what do I know!

After one set of painful tunes, accompanied by absolutely zero conversation, I was tired enough to go home.  We left the mid-thirties meat market (I swear, everyone looking to hook up in the Yonge and Eglinton neighbourhood was there checking each other out) and went our separate ways.  I tried to duck the hug, but was unsuccessful, so got instead the awkward rainy half-hug.  I just didn’t want to press up against that shirt, for both the fashion, and the food.

You may be what you eat, but don’t wear it on your sleeve for the world to see.

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