I’m So Nervous, by Randi Braun

The following story is approximately 0.1% fictitious. Enjoy.

I’m So Nervous!!!

On no particular weeknight, I began chatting via JDate’s trusty Instant Messenger with a tall, dark-haired, 29-year-old Jew who, I’d noticed, had been viewing my profile about once every 9 minutes. That is a lot. Just so you have a relative idea, once a day is a lot. When he finally mustered up the courage to send me an IM, he admitted that he had been somewhat enamored of my profile blurb, which I had kind of figured out around the 100th time I saw his face in my “Who’s viewed me” list. I looked at his profile blurb. He wrote two sentences, one of which advertised him as a “young physician.”

His screenname was DocMD, which I found to be hilarious. It was like he had a virtual bullhorn, and was screaming, “Guess what ladies?! I’m a doctor. Isn’t that AWESOME?!!” Humility was obviously not his best quality, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

My virtual chat with DocMD started out pleasantly. At some point during our conversation, he interjected, “Hey…do you like Tom Petty?”

I promptly answered “Yes…I love Tom Petty!”

DocMD: Well I have these tickets for a Tom Petty concert on Thursday. You should come with me.

My immediate thought was: (Ohhhh…no. No no no. Now way). But I actually responded with…

Me: That’s really nice of you to offer, but I’ve found that first dates that involve “activities” are generally not a good idea.

DocMD: But you really like Tom Petty. It’ll be good. And we WILL like each other. I can already tell from chatting with you (Oh, I see. You must be new to the website).

It takes a few months to learn the truth behind JDate’s instant messaging feature. The reality is that IMs have a very sneaky way of fooling the average JDate member into thinking that she intimately knows the person whose words are popping up on her computer screen. Although she’s almost certain that she has “figured out” her fellow internet dater, she has an 80% chance of hating him when they actually meet in the flesh. Why? Well, if you have to ask that, go back into the archives and reread my previous posts.

Anyway, DocMD kept asking me about the concert. When I told him for the last time that a concert was out of the question, he asked me if I would meet him for a drink. Like…right then. I looked at the clock. It was only 9:01. Since my plans for the evening involved sitting on my ass, watching American Idol and eating sugary cereal, there was really no reason not to meet him.

Me: Ok….sure.

DocMD: Good. I have to drive in from Brooklyn, but I can be anywhere in Manhattan within an hour and fifteen minutes.

Me: Umm, how about we meet at 10:15 at Obivia on the Lower East Side? I’ve always wanted to go there.

DocMD: Perfect. 10:15 sharp.

Even though our plans were completely spur-of-the-moment, and there was probably at least a 50:50 chance that this guy would turn out to be a schmo, I was looking forward to the date. That is, until…

DocMD: Oh, where do you live? I can pick you up. I have a car….IT’S A BMW. (…..Oh god… ………Really?……………..REALLY??? You HAD to soak our date with kerosene and light it on fire before I even left my apartment??!!!)

How was I supposed to respond to that? “Oh, thank GOD you have a luxury vehicle! I like you SOOO much more now that I know you don’t drive a regular car, or god forbid, a shitty cracker-box on wheels. And is it a convertible???! Let’s make sure we put the top down because I’d REALLY like all of my friends to see me riding in your expensive car! YAY!!!!”

It was a shame. But I had already accepted his invitation, and since I’m me, I felt stuck. Before signing off the website, DocMD and I exchanged phone numbers, just in case one of us happened to be running late.

DocMD: Ok, see you soon!

Me: Uh huh.

I searched my closet for something to wear, while mentally whining about my situation. After a few minutes of rummaging through every piece of clothing I owned, I decided to put on a black, stretchy, long-sleeved top that leaves my shoulders exposed, a pair of nice blue jeans that I’ve been told makes my ass-cheeks look like “two perfectly round, ripe peaches,” and a pair of white stilettos. I figured I should dress nicely. What the hell, right? There was always the chance that the bartender would be cute.

After my clothes were on, I headed out to the street, hailed a cab, and arrived at Obivia right on time.

I had never been to Obivia before, nor had I heard much about it, but the moment I pulled open the front door, I fell in love with the place. The front room was dim, cozy and inviting. Vintage couches and arm-chairs lined the walls, along with a few comfy-looking, purple suede chaise-lounges that were covered with ornately adorned decorative throw pillows of all different colors. Just past the front room was a passageway that housed the bar, some black leather stools, and an entire wall of exposed brick. Beyond that, another lounging area.

Since the place was nearly empty, it was easy to see that DocMD hadn’t arrived yet, so I found the fluffiest looking couch, sat down and placed my purse on my lap. Within seconds…

(ring ring ring)

I opened my bag, unzipped the side-pocket and grabbed my phone.

Me: Hello?

DocMD: Hey, I’m running late. The traffic coming over the bridge is awful! It’s gonna be another 30 minutes or so. I’m sorry! Get yourself a drink and keep the receipt. I’ll pay for it at the end of the night.

(30 minutes??? What the hell!…You said 10:15 sharp!)
After we exchanged a few words, I closed my cell phone and went to the bar, only to find that the bartender was a cute blonde girl.

(Damn it)

I asked her for a peach mojito and she puttered around for at least five minutes, randomly dumping various liquors into a glass, while repeatedly referring to a laminated list of ingredients, which, by the look on her face, might have been written in Swahili. She was obviously new and didn’t know what she was doing, but I didn’t care. I had no place to be. When she finished making my $12 drink, I gave her fourteen dollars and told her to throw the receipt in the trash.

When I sat back down, I got a text: “Ok, 30 minutes from now.” It had been ten minutes since his call.

(Grrrr)

And so I waited alone on the couch. I managed to busy myself for 15 minutes by reading every text message in my inbox, while intermittently taking tiny sips of my peach-flavored beverage. After exhausting both of those activities activity, I passed some more time by reading the cocktail menu until I could have recited it by heart, chewing on my little red straw until it was all flattened and mashed down, and picking at my cuticles for entirely too long. There really wasn’t much else to do. I hadn’t been expecting to be sitting at a bar doing nothing. I could have been doing nothing in the comfort of my own apartment. After another dateless 25 minutes, I thought about leaving, but then he called again.

DocMD: Hey, no more than 10 minutes, I promise!

Me: Ok (…You’d better surprise me and be awesome).

There were only four other people in the bar, which was nice. Since I probably looked pathetic, sitting all alone for upwards of 45 minutes, waiting for my tardy/nonexistent schmo of a date to arrive, at least there wasn’t a bar full of people staring at me, making me feel self-conscious.

I took my chewed-up straw and started wrapping it around my forefinger, like a little ring, when DocMD finally walked through the door.

I did a quick once-over…

(Oh, COME ON!! Where are all the normal people?!!!)

There he was: DocMD. Tall, thin, prissy-looking, and wearing some sort of designer, white-washed jeans, complete with strategically placed holes; a pink polo with a popped collar (…I might have puked in my mouth when I saw that); and some shiny loafers. He was your classic metro-sexual (which means that he was the complete opposite of my type. I think I’d rather be on a date with a woman). Oh, and he was less attractive in person. Hooray.

Despite feeling annoyed that I had waited so long for…that, I knew I had to greet him graciously. When I stood up to give him a “good-to-meet-you” kiss on the cheek, he said, all frazzled and crazy-eyed…

DocMD: Oh my god…..I’m so NERVOUS!!!…This is only the third date I’ve been on in FIVE YEARS!!…I just got out of a REALLY long relationship and I don’t know how to date anymore so I’m really REALLY nervous!!!

Me: (Umm…this is new) …Don’t be nervous. Just get yourself a drink and then come back, and we’ll talk……(Or, I’ll try to calm you down. One of the two).

DocMD: Do you want a drink too?

Me: Oh, yeah sure. I’ll have a peach mojito.

A few minutes later, DocMD came back holding his Jack and Coke in one hand and my mojito in the other. As he put our drinks down, I noticed that his hands were trembling. The guy was a fuckin’ wreck. I was just hoping he wouldn’t do something that would make his situation even worse, like spill his drink all over his pants, which would make him all flustered and embarrassed. And then have to walk across the bar with his crotch all wet with Jack and Coke to ask the hot bartender for napkins. That actually could have been really funny from someone else’s perspective (like mine), but then he might have peed himself out of sheer horror, which would have been sad.

Instead of spilling his drink into his lap, he sat down, put our glasses on the table, and left his Jack and Coke just sitting there. I watched it, waiting for him to drink the damn thing. I think he was talking about something, but I was so focused on the Jack and Coke that he was NOT drinking that my brain tuned out his voice in favor of a quick daydream…

Imaginary me: Hey, I have an idea…why don’t you drink your drink!? I bet it’s reeeeaaallly tasty! If you need some help, you can just lean back, open your mouth and let me pour it down your throat. It’ll be FUN!! You’ll be drunk and happy in no time!

Finally, he took a sip. One sip! (Ughh!…drink more you asshole!). The faster he drank, the lighter the nervous tension would be, and the easier our socially appropriate amount of date-time would go.

Starting the conversation was clearly up to me. DocMD had nervously mumbled something while I was staring at his idle drink, but he was too busy pooping his pants to think a real topic of conversation, so I just picked up where he left off.

Me: So…you were in a relationship for a while and this is your third date since the break-up? Were your other dates from the website as well?

DocMD: Yeah.

Since the first few meetings from JDate are usually pretty interesting, I asked about his previous two dates.

DocMD: Welllll….the first date was terrible!

Me: Oh, that sucks.

DocMD: Yeah, the girl was really cute and all but she had NOOOO personality. She just sat there talking… and I don’t even remember what she talked about….she was THAT boring. She was just like…blah. Like, just a “blah” person. You know? Blah blah blah.

Me: Ok….

DocMD: And I was SOOO bored, listening to her talk about pop culture and celebrities…

Me: Uh huh…(You kind of talk like you’re gay).

DocMD: And oh my GOD!!…EVERYTHING about the date was just bad! AND, she was a TERRIBLE kisser!! (Whoa……what!?!)

Me: Wait, why were you kissing her? You just said you didn’t like her.

DocMD: I mean, I had to drive her all the way back to her parents’ place on Long Island, so…..you know… (No…I don’t know. Please explain).

Me: I don’t understand.

DocMD: What don’t you understand?…I kissed her because she was cute.

I just looked at him. I was very confused.

DocMD: What???….. She was cute!!!

Two-thirds of my mind was shocked, and the remaining third was just laughing. Who would kiss someone when there is neither an emotional connection, nor (sorry girls) any chance for sex? That would be like kissing a cute female statue. Yuck!

Then he went on a tangent….

DocMD: You know, you’re a lot smarter than I thought you’d be. I can just tell by the way you speak and present yourself that you’re really smart and sophisticated (Oh, well thank you). I was just expecting you to be another dumb, spoiled valley girl from LA (…Hey!! That’s not very nice!).

Me: Well, if that’s what you were expecting, why were you so hell-bent on meeting me?

DocMD: Wellllll, I guess ‘cuz I thought your profile was hilarious and your photos are SOOOO hot. I mean, dammmnn. You look REALLY good in some of those. The one with the black dress and the white heels, oh my GOD!……………(You idiot! You’re not supposed to TELL me this stuff! Now I’m going to think you’re shallower than I already thought you were. Give me a real compliment. Tell me you thought I was smart).

Me: Is that the only reason?

DocMD: Yeah, pretty much…………(You are a moron).

As far as dates go, this night was already dead, placed into a coffin; nailed, super-glued, and Scotch-taped shut; and then immersed in a cement block under a 50-story high-rise. But, on the upside……..wait, there was no upside.

Since DocMD was new to the online dating scene, I thought I would tell him a funny date story. Just as I had begun setting the tone and describing the setting, he interrupted me mid-sentence with some garbage about himself, completely unrelated to my story. I let him talk until it seemed like he was finished, which took a while.

Me: So, anyway…back to my story (…finally). I said hello to the guy, and he and I walked over to Wet Bar and– –

DocMD: –Oh I LOVE Wet Bar! I know one of the bartenders there. Do you know the blonde one? …..(Hey, I was talking!! Can’t you listen for more than 13 seconds at a time??)

Me: No. I was only there that one time.

DocMD: Oh, you might have seen her. She’s the one with the really big tits (I see that the alcohol’s hitting you. And thank you so much for using the word “tits.”). Anyway, she gives me free drinks because she thinks I’m REALLY cute….(I think she wants your money). I bring my friends there all the time and we get bottle service. They just LOVE me there, well, I mean, because I’m so awesome… (Did you just say you’re so awesome?)
He continued talking for another couple minutes, or maybe longer. I stopped paying attention…until I heard it again…

DocMD: …Blah blah blah, blah blah …well, because, I’m so cute. And blah blah blah, you know, ‘cuz I’m so awesome….

Even though he kept interrupting me, there was something absurdly funny about him telling me how awesome he was.

I eventually made a futile third attempt at telling my story, but he cut me off again. It was obvious that DocMD only cared about the words coming out of his own mouth, and it didn’t really matter whether I was an intelligent person, a spoiled valley girl, or a marionette with a sombrero and a guitar. It was time to shift my strategy. I would start grilling him about his life. That way, he could spew out as much crap about himself as he liked, while I sat quietly, analyzing his character and breaking it down into a million pieces. I tend to do that a lot. It’s a bad habit.

Since he had mentioned an ex-girlfriend during his grand entrance, I figured it might be interesting to ask him more about his relationship history. I was assuming he’d be comfortable talking about it, considering that the first words he blurted out after walking into the bar were: “Help! I just got out of a REALLY long relationship, and I’m scared to be here with you because I’m a giant pussy!!” I think that’s what he said. Anyway, on a normal date, bringing up past relationships requires at least one-and-a-half drinks, but this train wreck of a date was already so deep in the shitter that it would have been pretty difficult to make it worse.

I started off by asking him a few basic questions and found out that his ex had severe psychological problems (she had been with this doofus for five years), that her name was Sarah, and that she was a Jew. He had apparently broken it off with Sarah the Jew about four months prior, so I asked him why.

DocMD: Well….I didn’t really want to but I HAD to break up with her.

Me: What do you mean?

DocMD: Well, my parents didn’t want me to marry someone short…(What!!)

Me: Umm, what?

DocMD: Yeah, I mean…I’m 6’2” and she was only 5 feet tall, and my parents said that they don’t want short grandchildren. (Your PARENTS wanted you to break up with her? And you DID?! What the HELL is wrong with you?!)

Me: That’s…really messed up.

DocMD: No, listen…it makes sense (No it doesn’t). You see, my family has good height genes as far as Jews go (…height genes?), and my parents don’t want them to be polluted with short stature (Polluted? Are you serious!? Like…“Oy gevault!! Little Jacob can’t reach the matzo-balls on the highest shelf of the kitchen. God help us….we’re all going to die!!!”).

Me: Did you love her? (Please say no. Please say no)

DocMD: Yes.….(Oh my GOD!!! Who throws love away!!? You disgust me). She was really pretty and always dressed well and had a nice body and cute curly hair and perfectly straight teeth…AND she was Jewish! So yeah, of course I loved her.…….(Oh, whew. That’s not love. Love is rare, but petite, pretty, curly-haired Jews who dress well and always remembered to wear their retainers are everywhere in this city. I know at least four girls who fit that description).

Me: So, she was short. Is that it?

DocMD: Well, she also didn’t come from a lot of money, which was NOT ok with my parents (…Do you do everything your parents tell you to do? What if they told you to shove vegetables up your butt? Or play in a pile of nuclear waste? Would you do it?).

The “ex” talk soon came to an end. He of course, didn’t ask about my ex because I don’t matter. The next few minutes were filled with fluff: he talked about his childhood, his siblings, his education, and any other rubbish that danced through his mind. The guy never shut the fuck up. The next thing I remember hearing was…

DocMD: My parents are really wealthy. I mean REALLY wealthy! They own two homes in the Hamptons, another one in the Poconos and one in Martha’s vineyard, so yeah…they have A LOT of money.

I don’t even remember where that comment came from, but as soon as he said it, I saw him search my eyes for a sparkle of delight. Like the BMW comment, this was supposed to make me froth at the mouth and perk up like a horny Rottweiler waiting to hump the neighbor’s dog. I don’t think he was satisfied with my response of “Uh huh,” because he made sure to say it again.

DocMD: Yeah, my mom’s grandfather started some REALLY important foundation in the early 1900’s and she’s the heiress to half of that money so yeah, they’re REALLY wealthy…(I see. You should ask them to buy you a new shirt).

Me: Ok.

I gave him a half smile with a look of “pardon me, but what the hell am I supposed to say to that?” That’s when a flame-engulfed zeppelin appeared in my head.

I looked at my watch. 20 minutes.

DocMD: You know what? (…Yes? What would you like to tell me next? That you got a pony for your 5th birthday? And a horsey for your 6th? And that your maid cooked your meals, cleaned your room, and wiped your butt after you made poopy in the toilet?)…

But instead…

DocMD…….So far, this date is going really, really well (……………WHAT!!!!!!?????).
It’s definitely been the best of my three dates. I bet it’s the best date for you too, isn’t it? I mean, how could it NOT be? The conversation is flowing so well and there haven’t been any weird silences (That’s because you never shut up!!!!). It’s been like, the ideal date.

He continued.

DocMD: And I really like you. You’re really pretty and really smart and you’re driven in life and REALLY easy to talk to (…Oh my god). And I think we would just LOOK really good together, you know? I mean, we’re both tall and attractive…(insert your own mean thought here). AND you’re Jewish! (…Wow)
According to DocMD, being on a great date simply meant being out with a woman who met all of his girlfriend criteria: smart, driven, attractive, and easy to talk to. Oh, and tall. Apparently, that’s all it takes to create a solid relationship. I guess we learn something new everyday.

Since he hadn’t yet figured out that his attraction was one-sided, I had to drop the “I-don’t-like-you” bomb before the end of the date, when this guy would inevitably try to lean in for a kiss. I just had to figure out when and how to let him down.

DocMD: Wanna come outside with me while I have a cigarette?

Me: You smoke? You’re a doctor.

DocMD: Yeah, well…I only became a doctor because my parents wanted me to take over their practice (…Oh, how silly of me to think you actually chose your own profession). I don’t really care about health very much.

So we stood up, and I followed the “young physician” out the front door so he could fill his lungs with tar and nicotine.

Once we were outside, I leaned against the outer wall of the bar and closed my eyes so I could enjoy feeling the cool midnight air on my cheeks, which were warm to the touch. My face always gets flushed when I drink.

After no more than eight seconds of zen-like tranquility, DocMD started up about the Tom Petty concert again. But this time, he was begging me to go with him.

DocMD: I asked another girl right after you said “no,” but I’ll cancel on her if you’ve changed your mind.

He thought this was a sweet gesture. I told him he was a jackass for thinking about canceling. It was great. He gave me the perfect reason to keep saying “no”: not wanting him to disappoint some other girl by canceling. Checkmate! He kept pushing though, arguing that now, because we “like each other” (vomit in mouth again), that a concert wouldn’t be awkward. I, however, stood firmly by my decision.

Me: Now that you’ve asked someone else, you’ve really convinced me not to go with you. The girl is probably excited about the concert, and it would be terrible of you to just blow her off.

DocMD: Why do you even care? You don’t know her.
(Wow…you are an asshole).

Me: You are an asshole!
(Woops. Didn’t mean for that to come out).

DocMD: Why am I an asshole?
(You don’t even know?)

Me: It doesn’t matter that I don’t know the girl. She is a person, and I’m assuming she has feelings…you know?

He finished his cigarette and as we walked back inside, I looked at my watch.

33 minutes down.

We went back inside and I plopped back down on the couch. Then something very weird happened. The subject of compliments came up (specifically, receiving compliments) and DocMD and I had a conversation. Like, I got to talk too!

Me: Compliments on appearance are obviously nice to get, but I find it even more flattering if a person tells me that I’m intelligent, or creative, or amusing.

DocMD: REALLY??? You’d rather have someone tell you that you’re amusing?! (Yes. And that concept seems to have you stunned. Why am I not surprised?). I’d SOOO much rather get a compliment on my appearance. I value physical characteristics a lot…like A LOT (Yeah, I kinda gathered that). Above anything else you can value about a person.

Me: Wait, above anything else?

DocMD: Yeah, I know it sounds bad (…Umm, yes. It certainly does. You probably shouldn’t go around advertising that).

Me: Well, ok…I have a question. Would you rather settle down with a girl who’s a 10, but is selfish, ditzy, and a complete idiot…or a 6.5, who is caring, witty, and intelligent?

DocMD: Ummm…..I’d choose the 10.

Me: WHAT!!……………….That is SO FUCKED UP!

I was getting visibly agitated.

Me: What do you think you’re going to look like in 50 years? Well, I’ll tell you….you’ll be ugly, droopy, and covered in age spots, just like every other old person. And guess what? Your wife will be ugly and droopy too! Are you planning on divorcing her when the first dimple of cellulite appears on her butt? And what if she’s as vain as you are? She might dump your balding ass the moment your hairline starts to recede! At some point in life, age will catch up, and we’re all going to turn into shriveled up into little prunes who have no signs of our former beauty. And when that time comes, all you will be left with is the person you have become!
I was practically yelling at him.

DocMD: I guess I’m not thinking that far ahead. Plus, I’m cute so I should be with someone who’s cute (Ughhhhhh!)

I wanted to strangle him, but instead, I let out a huge, frustrated sigh, which was followed by about five seconds of silence. And in those five seconds, I had somehow managed to replay all the crap that this guy had told me about his life, and thought of a brilliant way to reject him in a gentle but clear way, and imagined how nice it would be when I got home and curled up on my couch. Then I started laughing.

DocMD: What’s so funny? (Ummm, you might want to brace yourself)

Me: Well, we’ve been talking for almost 40 minutes and I feel like I could recant your entire life story, but the whole time we’ve been sitting here, you haven’t asked one question about me.

DocMD: What do you mean? I know stuff about you (Hmmm, ok…let’s try a little quiz, shall we?)

Me: What do you know about me?

DocMD: Well…uhhhhh…I know that you majored in nutrition at NYU.

Me: That was in my JDate profile, so it doesn’t count.

DocMD: Fine. Well, I know you have a bird.

Me: That was also in my profile.

Then he started getting defensive.

DocMD: Well, YOU’VE just been asking ME so many questions that I haven’t been able to ask anything about your life (Oh, you’re right. How rude of me to tape your mouth shut and yell at you every time you try to ask me something. I’ll try to stop doing that).

DocMD: And it’s not like the conversation has been 80:20. It’s been more like 60:40 (Ummm, sorry sir. Unless “60:40” means “90:10”, you are way off).

And here it came…

Me: Do you want to know what makes a conversation 50:50?

DocMD: Yeah, what makes a conversation 50:50? (Wow, that’s first thing you’ve asked me tonight other than, “Do you know the big-titted bartender?”)

Me: A 50:50 conversation occurs when two people are equally interested in what the other has to say, and are equally comfortable sharing a certain amount of information about their personal lives.

DocMD: That’s not true!!! When they’re asking about each other, they’re only PRETENDING to be interested. They just want to other person to THINK they’re listening.

(Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!! I WANT TO KILL YOU!!!!!)

I was SO frustrated, but I maintained my composure and calmly let him know that his previous comment was incorrect. I wasn’t going to argue with him about it because I wanted to finish my FUCKING POINT! I continued.

Me: On the other hand, an 80:20 conversation occurs when the person giving 80% doesn’t care what his date has to say. He’s only thinking about the words that are coming out of his mouth, and for some reason, feels very comfortable sharing intimate details about his life with the other person. And then there’s the one giving 20%. She, or he, is fine just letting the other person talk. However, she, or he, doesn’t feel at all comfortable sharing anything personal with her date…………
……………………………………………
DocMD: Wait………………………………………………
………………wait……………….Are you saying that you don’t feel comfortable telling me stuff?! And I’ve been talking too much!!?

(DING DING DING DING DING!!!!!!!)

Me:…………Yes.

DocMD: Oh my god you’re REJECTING me??!!

I just shrugged.

DocMD: You’re rejecting me! I’ve NEVER been rejected before and I know you’re just some girl I met on the internet (Thanks) but I feel so….REJECTED!!!

And this is when the questions finally came out…

DocMD: What did I do WRONG??????! I shouldn’t have told you I was nervous, right? It turned you off right away. I shouldn’t have been so honest (No, that wasn’t it). Or, wait…it was the concert. Was that it? Bugging you about the concert?! Shit! I annoyed you, I knew it! I know I should have stopped asking!!!

Me: Look, it wasn’t something you did (Well, that’s a lie. Everything you did was wrong). We just aren’t right for each other, and that alone doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you (…although, there clearly is something wrong with you).

DocMD: That’s so untrue! Just tell me what it was. Is it that you don’t think I’m cute? (Well, I don’t think you’re cute but that’s not the reason. You are just so many bad things that I will probably go to hell if I think them all). I bet that’s it. Yeah, like half of girls think I’m REALLY cute and the other half think I’m just ok. That MUST be it! Come on, you can tell me.

Me: No, it’s not because you’re not cute (Ughh). Like I said, it’s not something you DID.

Then I gave him a lecture about life, love, and relationships. I, the 24-year old student, gave the 29-year-old physician, a lecture.

Me: Look, just listen to me for a second.

Then he actually shut the fuck up. Probably because I was about to talk about him.

Me: Here’s the thing. Just because two people are good on paper, say you and me, doesn’t necessarily mean that they would make a good couple. Maybe they both have good qualities that are tangible. Maybe they’re both intelligent and attractive (…insert another mean thought here). Let’s say the two people come from good families, are successful, and are Jewish…and they’re both tall (I know that’s important to you, you schmegegge), but there needs to be that spark, a flow, chemistry…you know? That unspoken vibe that just has to be there.

He just looked at me. I may as well have teaching him string theory…in sign-language…under water. He had no idea what I was talking about.

Me: Ok, for instance, let’s say I meet Brad Pitt. And maybe, on paper, he has every great quality a girl could ask for, but that doesn’t guarantee that I would want to MARRY him. Two peoples’ personalities have to be compatible. That’s where the spark comes from…..not from some mental checklist.

DocMD: I don’t understand. I’m cute and you’re cute.

Me: (Oh-my-god….How can I make this any more FUCKING clear without chewing it up and spoon feeding it to you!!?) Ok, let’s pretend we are all puzzle pieces (…This might work), and all of our good qualities make up our little ridges, and we’re all floating around out there…lots of little puzzle pieces floating around. You might be a great puzzle piece, and I might be a great puzzle piece, but that doesn’t mean we fit. I have to find my complementary puzzle piece and you have to find yours. Understand?
……………………………..
DocMD: ………………………………No…..it must be because you don’t think I’m cute. Just tell me what the real problem was!

(AAGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! OH MY GOD!!!!!!!)

Me: I just told you! There wasn’t one specific problem. We are just two quality people who don’t belong together.

DocMD: Should I change my approach next time? Not be so honest? I bet you thought I was a wimp because I told you I was nervous…….(I should just bang my head against the wall)……Man, I can’t believe I’m getting rejected…I just can’t believe it! I was NOT expecting this!

This went around and around for a few more minutes. The guy honestly didn’t understand that there is more to life than money…and cuteness.

We got up from the sofa and I let him pay the bill. Looking back, I probably should have paid for my second drink. I rejected the guy, ruined his night, probably damaged his ego, and perhaps even fucked up the rest of his life (considering who we are dealing with).

We walked out to the street, said goodbye, and went our separate ways. Even though it was late and the streets were empty, I walked home. I had to mentally digest the events of the previous 45 minutes.

DocMD had spent 29 years with his head in the clouds, thinking that he could get anything he wanted by being rich and “attractive.” I gave him a dose of reality that night and I was hoping I had shaken his world…at least a little.

The next morning, there was an email in my JDate inbox: “Sender: DocMD.” I waited a day to open it, thinking he had written something unpleasant. However, when I finally sat down to read it, I was shocked. It was the exact opposite. He had written me a 3-paragraph email apologizing for being such a douche, and letting me know that I was right: looks aren’t everything. I couldn’t believe it! He had actually comprehended some of my diatribe after all!

I didn’t respond to DocMD’s email—I don’t know what I would have written—and we were never in contact again. But after reading that email, I truly developed some respect for the clueless doctor.

It may sound egotistical but I think in a small way, I might have helped him. At least I hope I did. Maybe one day he’ll come across an emaciated bleach-blonde with plumpy, collagen-filled lips and a tiny, surgically-altered nose who thinks she can get anything by tossing her huge, silicone “tits” around…and he’ll be able to give her the same lecture on life. Just maybe…

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