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I Was Blind (Dating), But Now I See
My Misadventures in Dating, Waiting, and Stumbling into Love
By Stephanie Rische Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2016 Stephanie Rische
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4964-0481-7
CHAPTER 1
Blond Date
"Have fun on your blond date," Nhu told me as she headed out the door.
Clearly there had been a communication breakdown somewhere along the way.
Nhu had been an even giddier version of her usual eighth-grade self when she found out about my date scheduled for the next day. I'd met Nhu at the church youth group, where I mentored her and a handful of other junior high girls. That day she'd come over to work on an essay for her English class since she and her mom didn't have a computer and she was still catching on to the nuances of the English language.
But once she got wind of my "blond date" — and when she discovered it was my first one, at that — all thoughts of homework quickly vaporized. She started peppering me with questions and offering advice about everything dating related — where we should go, what I should wear, and what she predicted this guy would look like (beyond the obvious blond hair).
We eventually got the definition worked out — that this guy was not necessarily blond, nor blind, for that matter. And then, to my surprise, Nhu blurted out, "What do you hope he's like?" She said it like it was the first time it had occurred to her that I might get some say in the matter. I suppose that's how you roll when you're thirteen.
I seized the teachable moment, telling her what was important to me when it came to someone I'd want to date. I was looking for a man with integrity, I said. Someone who loved God and did the right thing, even when it hurt. Someone who was serious enough to work hard but could also laugh himself silly. A man who would honor me and love me at my best and my worst.
At some point I looked over at Nhu and realized her eyes were glazing over. Sure enough, I'd surpassed the thirty-second teenager- accessibility window.
"One more thing," I added. "I guess I always pictured myself with a brown-haired guy."
* * *
As it turned out, Blond Date did, indeed, have blond streaks in his hair. Unfortunately, that was where the highlights ended. So to speak.
I arrived at Jamba Juice a few minutes early, so I wasn't surprised Blond Date hadn't arrived yet. Truth be told, I was a bit relieved, as it would buy me time to dry my sweaty palms and figure out what drink I should order to convey that I was neither a glutton nor a calorie counter. Perfectly natural, of course.
Five minutes ticked by. I had my order down by now. Ten minutes. I was eyeing every male who approached the door, alternately hoping it would be him and praying it wouldn't, based on whether his car looked like a candidate for the scrap metal yard, whether his shoes clashed with his pants, and other such deep inner qualities.
Fifteen minutes. The girl behind the counter was now giving me pitying looks. Twenty minutes. I wished I'd done more research on blind-date etiquette. How long do you wait before conceding you've been stood up?
And another thing: What role did the matchmaker play once the ball had gotten rolling? I'd feel like the worst kind of snitch to call her with a report about my date's AWOL status, and I couldn't think of a way to pull off a casual check-in, where I'd nonchalantly fish for hints as to whether he'd lost interest somewhere between Tuesday and the nearest Jamba Juice.
The truth was, I didn't even know Debbie, the matchmaker, all that well. My brother and sister had played sports with her kids in high school, so we often found ourselves cheering together on the bleachers at basketball and softball games. Several years had passed since then, but Debbie thought of me one day when she was talking to her friend (Blond Date's mom), who was fretting over her son's bachelordom. As they were lamenting over how "all he needed was to meet a nice girl," my name popped into Debbie's mind.
I'm not entirely sure why I agreed to the setup, since for me, even answering a call from an unknown number felt like an act of daredevilesque courage. I'd always assumed blind dates fell into the category of Things I Just Don't Do, right up there with cliff diving and juggling knives. I wasn't sure I could sit and make small talk with a stranger for an hour, let alone do said scary activity with a date. As I tried to figure out how to respond to her voice mail, I thought through the booby traps of saying yes: (1) I'd have to navigate the tricky, alien world of dating, with its unwritten codes and expectations; (2) in a short window of time, I'd have to try to represent myself accurately yet winsomely enough that this person would go out of his way to see me again; and (3) I'd have to try to eat something while looking cute and preferably not getting anything stuck between my teeth.
All the tallies seemed to be lining up in the "con" column, but there was one potential pro that had the power to outweigh them all: the what-if. This probably wouldn't go anywhere ... but what if it did? This guy probably wasn't my soul mate ... but what if he was?
There was something else I had going for me: I never bumped into Debbie in the course of normal life. So if things blew up or fizzled out, I'd be able to wallow in anonymity.
Of course, I hadn't counted on Blond Date not showing up at all. Twenty-five minutes. By now I was moving from twinges of disappointment to bouts of indignation. But each time I got angry, I'd picture him in a fiery crash somewhere between his house and Jamba Juice and cut him some slack. I decided to give him thirty minutes, and after that I was out of there.
As my eyes flicked compulsively between the parking lot and my watch, I heard a voice behind me. "Excuse me," the girl behind the counter said. "Are you waiting for someone?" So much for my play-it-cool strategy.
I nodded lamely.
"Well, he just called and said to tell you he's running late."
Forty-three minutes after the prearranged time, Blond Date showed up.
"Did you get the message I'd be late?" he asked. "I was in the middle of a really intense game of soccer."
Soccer? Not a fiery car crash?I took a breath, determined to give him the benefit of the doubt.
"Oh," I said. "Do you play on a team?"
"No, it's just a bunch of guys who play pickup in the park near my house."
At least I was getting a Banana Berry Smoothie with a boost of vitamin C for my efforts. And he had showered, so that showed some effort, if not time-management skills.
As soon as we ordered (to his credit, he paid), it was time to face the dilemma I'd had plenty of time to ponder since arriving. The thing is, this particular Jamba Juice had no seating. And it was a brisk November day in blustery Chicagoland.
I'd scoped out our options and figured our best bet was to sit on a bench just outside the building. I pitched the idea to Blond Date as we walked out of the place, but he countered with the suggestion that we chat in my car instead.
"In my car?" Something about having this person I'd never met (and someone I'd spent the past forty-three minutes being peeved at) in my vehicle felt awkward at best. Maybe even a little creepy.
But he was persistent. "It's too cold out here."
I resisted the urge to say something about it not being too cold for pickup soccer.
And so it was that we ended up sitting in my car and making awkward small talk while drinking our smoothies.
"So, tell me about yourself," he said.
I swallowed, willing myself not to feel like I was at a job interview.
But it was a fair question. We had covered the subjects we knew we had in common (i.e., our matchmaker) in the span of about thirty seconds. When you go on a normal date, you theoretically already have some common ground to start from. But we were starting from scratch. How could it not feel like an interview?
Please don't ask what three adjectives I'd use to describe myself!
I lobbed some questions to Blond Date about soccer, but my knowledge of the game was limited to fourth-grade gym class and how I thought Mia Hamm had a cool name, so that didn't go very far.
Our humor styles were in different orbits too. Despite my best attempts to make him laugh, he remained stoic. Does it only make things worse if I explain that was a joke? Or should I just move on?
I decided it was better to abort and reroute the conversation.
"I'm hosting a birthday party for my friend next weekend," I said. "I'm thinking of having fondue."
And that's when he laughed.
Wait — that wasn't the joke! We passed the joke exit several mile markers ago!I hoped my face didn't betray my indignation.
"I didn't know anyone did that anymore," he said by way of explanation.
Eventually Blond Date looked at his watch. "Well, it's been an hour," he said, "which is my rule for first dates." He reached out his hand for an inelegant side-by-side handshake.
"It was nice meeting you," he said. And that was that.
Well. I'd always pictured myself with a brown-haired guy anyway.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from I Was Blind (Dating), But Now I See by Stephanie Rische. Copyright © 2016 Stephanie Rische. Excerpted by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc..
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