How I am.

Let me first just say that when it comes to meeting new people, I have always just assumed myself to be the most socially inept person in the room. I don't know where this belief originated. It could stem from the fact that I have a horrible memory and will often meet the same person 3 times. More than once, a person has pointed that out. It could be that I abhor small talk. It has always felt both unnatural and ingenuine. I've figured out I can fake it for about 10-15 minutes. At minute 16, typically, there's not a lot left to say, and I excuse myself to refill my drink, promise to be right back, and go pet the host's cat for 5 minutes. (This has replaced my smoking habit, but if I'm trashed, like a cheap whore I'll pick it right up again. Take that however you feel most comfortable. That too.)

That's a party. What happens if say, you find yourself going on a first date with, say, a hotel concierge that you have met on, say, an online dating site, at, say,11:30 on a Friday night, when you know you're not even remotely a night person? They do it on Sex and the City all the time, and they make it look so easy and fabulous. You never, ever see them chugging coffee or redbull or attempting a two-hour power nap beforehand, and you certainly don't see them stopping to clutch their upset, nervous stomachs, giving themselves pep talks, and engaging in deep breathing just moments before they enter the upscale rendezvous bar in Chelsea.

I was fully-prepared to continue on my unwavering path toward being crowned Queen of Social Ineptitude. Little did I know as I goofily slinked past all of the gay boys and hipsters that crowded the aisle to our table, I would have someone to contend with.

When I reached her, she pretended to find me entertaining. "Very stealth," she said. I thanked her as we engaged in the Metropolitan Cheek Kiss Ritual. She was from Salt Lake and I'm from south Florida, neither of which are terribly metropolitan. At least not in a cheek kissy way.

She didn't look like her pictures, but she was very pretty. Tall, nice skin, good hands, nice outfit. She'd obviously put time and thought into her appearance, whereas my friend Suzanne just sort of told me what to wear and I obeyed. I've learned that I don't think about my own clothes too much until they're too big or too small.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Oh, good, good."

Had I known that this would be the very last question she would ask me for the rest of the evening, and by evening I mean between the hours of 11:30 pm and 2:00 am, I would have been more specific as to how I in fact was. What happened next was a 2 1/2 hour monologue, a one-woman show, essentially, with limited audience participation and no intermission. The admission fee was $14 per mojito.

First there was the explanation of how she moved to the city 5 years ago. I asked her questions, because I was interested. She didn't ask me anything. Then she launched into the story about how she came out when she was 21. I asked questions, because I was interested. She didn't ask me anything. (As a side note, she came out of her closet shortly after having walked into Henrietta Hudson's for the first time and having heard a voice in the back of her head that said in a very clear voice "You're home." Really? You're home? At Henrietta's? I should have known at that point, but who am I to judge another person's spiritual awakenings? Go ahead and check out the pictures on the website. I'll be here when you get back.)

Then came the story of how she met her ex that night. How she lived with her for 5 years. How she still works with her ex. How her boss is now boffing her ex, but she doesn't care, because she's a professional. Exxity ex, ex, ex, ex exitty exterstein, EX. I didn't ask any questions. I wasn't interested. There was nothing to ask me, as far as she was concerned, because, guess what, I didn't bring up any of my exes. I respect them far too much to use them as an antidote/ice breaker for a first date. And guess what else? Talking about an ex-girlfriend for 20 minutes on a first date is rude. (She would later try to stiff the waitress on the tip, because in her mind, tipping $2 per drink is what she would give at the bar. I will spare you the dissection of her logic.)

At about 1:00 am, a couple canoodling near the drink ledge next to our table tipped over their beer. It fell face down between my plush chair and my plush ass, and sent beer gushing onto my nether regions. I moved our drinks to an empty table, excused myself to the restroom, and tried my very best to dry off. I was hoping she would have obtained a towel from the waitress by the time I'd returned, but no. I flagged down our waitress who, after bringing me a towel, repeatedly apologized for this thing that wasn't even her fault. I instantly felt more of a connection with her than with the ill-mannered girl I'd just met. As soon as the waitress left, my date was back to talking about herself. I don't remember what she said after that. It was all a blur.

I think biggest problem I had with this chick was her unwillingness to be silent or to allow for silence. This was an awkward situation: We'd never met face to face. What would be possibly talk about? Rather than embrace the weirdness, she preferred to pretend like it didn't exist. If I didn't come in immediately with something to say whenever there was a pause after one of her speeches, off she'd go again for another 10-15 minutes. I didn't even really have to listen, and quite frankly, after beer was spilled into my asscrack, I just stopped listening. I just nodded after a while, suppressed my yawns and said "Uh-huh" a lot.

I actually enjoy the silences on a date. It's in those silences where you get to find out if you're compatible or not. What do you do with them? Do you look at a person's eyes? Do you try to touch them? Do you laugh? Do you make fun of yourselves and how improbable the whole situation is? To me, comfortability with small silences equates to "comfortability with imperfection" and most importantly "comfortability with oneself."

I guess the thing that baffles me the most about this night is the fact that not one single question was asked about me. Not one. I gave her so many opportunities, but she never bit. At 2 am I finally ended it. I couldn't think of anything other than the truth. "I'm sorry. I've got to go. I'm really tired, and I have rehearsal tomorrow."

Say you were on this date with me. "Rehearsal for what?" you might be tempted to ask.

"Oh, well, it's actually kind of cool," I would say. "I've written this play, and am putting it up with 2 really great friends of mine. I'm actually really excited about it!"

That, of course didn't happen. After we paid and resolved the tip issue (yes, I made up the difference) she was debating with herself on whether or not to take a cab home. It was then that a cab pulled up next to us. At 2 am. On a very deserted 19th street. Finally the universe had tossed me a bone. I practically forced her not to walk me to the subway with the words, "Don't you love it when things just pull up right next to you? You shouldn't take these things for granted." It was the one truly ill-mannered thing I did all evening, but I didn't care anymore. I was tipsy on two $14 mojitos, wanted my two and a half hours back, and I was going to take it back with a good walk, and a nice, long, purposeful smoke. I obtained a Marlboro from a very sweet gay boy, and reflected on my evening.

I was totally exhausted for having paid so much attention at such a late hour. My brain was puttering out, and I felt as if I'd just attended a lecture on geology, or a screening of Schindler's List.

Some good has to come out of this, I thought.

I recalled a memory from my childhood. I was 11 years old, and my mother and I were watching Married With Children in the living room. Even at 11, I knew it was a guilty pleasure.

"Do you like this show?" I asked her.

"It's not that I like it. It just makes me feel a lot better about my own family," she said with a smile.

We laughed for a full minute. We were dysfunctional, to be sure, but not the Bundys.

"We're not that bad, huh, Mom?"

"No, we're not."