Amy is a 30-year-old “project-management desk jockey” who lives at Yonge and Lawrence. Amy describes herself as “Liz Lemon with a splash of Bridget Jones.” She likes to see live music and says any band with an accordion or banjo has her complete love and devotion—as do farmers markets, a well-made latte, and her nephews. After being single for six months, Amy met Mitchell online.
I was really at the end of my rope with internet dating, but after our first few messages, I caught myself thinking of Mitchell with a flutter in my stomach. In short, I had way too much riding on this date, was completely aware that I’d built it up in my mind, and had created expectations that this guy couldn’t possibly meet on a first date. I couldn’t help it.
After I got dressed, the unseasonably warm temperature, combined with my nerves, turned my carefully smoothed hair big and frizzy, and my makeup uneven and shiny. My anxiety went through the roof as the subway moved at a snail’s pace. When I reached my stop, I completely abandoned reason and began to run, even though a frazzled maniac running toward him was probably worse than being a few minutes late. Luckily, I thought of this before I rounded the corner where we were supposed to meet, and slowed down to a casual walk.
The day before my date, a friend had asked me what my type was. I said, “A lumberjack with a heart of gold,” rough around the edges, quiet, outdoorsy, and rumpled. Mitchell did not appear to be any of those. He was a well-dressed biochemist, strait-laced and verbose, but I was into it. He suggested coffee and a walk in the Distillery District. Within seconds, I had forgotten all about appearing so dishevelled; within minutes, we were comparing notes on favourite shows; and within a half-hour, we were finishing each other’s sentences. He said he loved my expressive hand gestures, and that there was “life” to the way I told stories.
We talked about his family’s business and his research, as well as my nomadic career choices, and our mutual love of cooking. I didn’t realize it was possible for people to get stars in their eyes for each other while talking about soup. I had to resist the urge to high-five him, and wondered if he was doing the same.
Later on, as we moseyed through some furniture stores, I commented on one of the tables—basically a polished slice of tree trunk. I said that it was gorgeous, but I hated to think of how old the tree was, or where it was cut down, to which he replied, “I guess this wouldn’t be a great time to tell you that I’m also a lumberjack.” I stopped dead in my tracks. The family business he had alluded to was in logging. I imagine my mouth was hanging open. I didn’t know “lumberjacking” was even a real thing anymore.
Recently, I asked him if he remembered what a mess I had been on our first date. He looked puzzled by the question, and told me I had been lovely. I’d like to believe that’s true, but I think the real truth is that I’m just a girl who found a great guy.
Amy rates her date (out of 10): 10
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