Plain TurkeyPosted: October 25, 2011
The other night I went out with Michael, a guy that I know Granny would consider to be a great candidate for grandson-in-law. I almost don’t want to tell her about him because I know she’ll berate me for not opting for a second date. He’s the kind of guy that she’d enjoy if I brought home for Thanksgiving. I can picture her force-feeding him shrimp cocktail and piles of dry turkey while he smiles and politely asks for more.
Michael, 28, is a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn. I’ve dated Jews before, typically out of coincidence rather than preference. It makes no difference to me, but I know that any man who knows what gefilte fish is or has ever asked the four questions would score some serious points in Granny’s book.
Michael has a good job as a consultant, he’s close with his family, works hard, he’s not unattractive, and he is moderately funny. He was straight edge until college, no drinking or smoking until age 20, a parent’s dream. I, on the other hand, spent my high school years living out a PG-13 version of Girls Gone Wild in South Florida.
He was a total gentleman, the guy lives deep in Brooklyn but he chose a bar in my neighborhood to meet up. I once asked my sister, an OKCupid success story, what stuck out about her boyfriend on their first date and she mentioned his considerate gesture of picking a place that was convenient for her.
I guess it takes more than a chivalrous deed to get me hot. Unfortunately I just didn’t feel any connection with him. You can’t deny or create chemistry that doesn’t naturally exist. He was like plain turkey on white bread. No condiments.
On paper (or a computer screen) he’s a solid catch but I wasn’t feeling it. There was zero spark. After a few drinks and some light conversation about First Class versus Coach and whether or not Starbuck’s coffee was overrated, I told him I had an early morning and had to get home.
Being the nice guy that he is, he offered to walk me to my apartment. Being the cynic that I am, the first thoughts that ran through my head were: a) he’s going to try and come upstairs to get down b) he wants my address to stalk me c) he is going to murder me. None of that happened (at least not yet).
When we got to my door he hugged me (perhaps lingering for a little too long), said good night, then we parted ways. For the record, I am not opposed to a nice guy, it’s just that I won’t settle for plain turkey. I want pickles, tomatoes, olives, banana peppers, pepperjack cheese, and some spicy mustard on my sandwich.