Wilfred Brimley

My first formal date after my last relationship was with a stand-up comic named Ted. Since the guy was supposed to be funny for a living, and I obviously have no sense of humor, a mutual friend figured we would be the perfect match.

After a brief email correspondence, Ted asked me to meet him at a pub in the West Village. That Thursday evening, I arrived early, settled myself at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic.

Fifteen minutes later, a lanky, long-haired gent sauntered in, donning a skintight cowboy shirt, and leered at me so unctuously, that were I casting for an eighties sitcom, he would be hired immediately as the villain for "A Very Special Episode".

We exchanged greetings and sat down at a lopsided table, where I immediately inquired about his comical occupation. After a few minutes of strained and floundering chit-chat, the comedian 's comments became shamefully sleazy.

"I have to say, you have a tight little body"

"Um...thanks?"

"No, really. I think we'd have a really good time in bed."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen."

At this point, most self-respecting ladies would have signaled the Amber Alert and hightailed it out of the bar. Since I maintained a momentary lapse of judgment, and determined that somehow the comedian would reveal that our meeting thus far was some asinine prank, I sat for a few moments, slightly stupefied.

Seconds later, Ted reached his arm behind my head and tugged a few strands of my hair.

"Your hair is too fine, I don't think I'd be able to pull it hard enough with my fingers."

"Really? That's funny because if you touch me again you won't have any fingers left." I gathered up my belongings, stepped down from the bar stool, and stated flatly, "Six words...I'm not gay, but I'll learn!".

On my subway ride home, I imagined the target audience of the stand-up's routine to be an obese, middle-aged man, who while getting busted on "To Catch A Predator", pleads to Chris Hansen, "I was just gonna take the little girl to Ted's comedy show, I swear!", as a bottle of Spongebob bubble bath and a box of condoms simultaneously drop from his trouser pockets.

Eight months later, with a few more dates under my belt, I actually look back on that squandered hour of my life, with a new found respect for that fulsome fool. Now I'm not saying that I applaud date rapists for "taking initiative", but the fact that Ted didn't enter into our meeting under the false pretense that he desired anything but to carry out his fetish fantasies, is somehow more sincere than the game-playing I've recently encountered.

Look, I'm a novice when it comes to the act of dating. Although I've been in consecutive long-term relationships over the past few years, they originated from a friendship, and only later wound up turning into vomit-inducing, tedious messes. Since the development of my former romances was more overt and forthright, luckily I had been spared from the usual pitfalls of dating communications. Unfortunately, now I find that in lieu of people expressing what they really feel, they don't say anything at all, leaving the other person to wonder what has transpired.

A few weeks ago, I even stumbled upon a passive aggressive rejection, when a guy I was seeing, flaked out on plans we made, and declared that I should have reminded him to call me.
Now I don't know about you, but to me, nothing says, "He's interested", as much as when I phone my man to inform him that "He's interested".

Please, if the simple act of telling a male to like me, would cause him to, I'd have the cast of Lord of the Rings on speed dial.

"Hey Elijah Wood, Meredith again...Yep, you still adore me. Bye."

Maybe next week I'll conference in Sawyer from Lost and Sir Paul McCartney.

Of course, it's not easy to tell someone, "I'm not keen on dating you", or "I really just want to sleep with a lot of people" or "You look like the six-fingered banjo player from 'Deliverance' and not in a good way", but I'm learning that it may be more humane than abandoning people to the inveterate analysis they may torture themselves with, in attempts to concoct a reason for your disappearance. Perhaps it's my recent inspiration from the commercials starring Wilfred Brimley, that incessantly loop during the Lifetime TV line-up, but the truth, like Quaker Oatmeal is the right thing to do...and no one benefits from "diah-beetus".