A Tad Abrupt
“You look great,” he said.
“I know,” I said, but I didn’t.
Tad was sitting when the hostess ushered me over to the table. He was drinking a beer. I ordered a diet coke and told him I didn’t drink. I didn’t want him to feel slighted, like I wasn’t drinking because he made me uncomfortable rather than that I was an alcoholic who hadn’t had a drink in over blank years. Having to explain it was never not uncomfortable. He was dressed like a golfer, or a businessman, or a man from the east coast. He was dressed like a frat boy or my dad forty years ago. His shirt looked like money. I wondered if he was one of those coastal elites’ people are always talking about. He looked like the kind of person who would have a keychain from an ivy league. I was more nervous than ever for this first date.
Sitting across the table from me, Tad looked like the pictures on his dating profile. I was deeply worried that I didn’t look like mine. I’ve spent my whole dating life making sure men knew exactly what I looked like. They say that men are worried a woman will show up fatter in person, and women worry that a man will murder them. I was always worried a man would murder you for being fatter in person, so I always went out of my way to convey the very essence of my being. But all my dating profile pictures had me in makeup. Not professional makeup, and not even anything super glamorous (I’d only ever really mastered the smokey eye if I’m being honest). But tonight, sitting across the table from Tad was the first time I’d ever been on a date in my life where I wasn’t wearing makeup. I’ve had boyfriends before, and I’m a pretty low maintenance girl who doesn’t wear makeup except on special occasions, but no makeup on a first date? My god, I would never. Until that night, of course.
The first time I noticed something wrong with my eye, I just thought it was allergies. If it was allergies, was I allergic to my eye makeup or just life in general—who could say? It wasn’t a biggest deal at first—I could just blink the excess tears away and get back to living life. Then, when it started happening more after I'd moved to Montreal with its cold and windy winters, I thought maybe it was a temperature thing. I tried to ignore it. However, as it progressively got worse (more frequent and more severe), the tears welling in my eye, threatening to spill down my face, I just started to leave parties early and accept fewer date invitations. I even left a hot make-out session once with an adorable guy once because my watery eye was threatening to spill over, and at the time I found it embarrassing. What would I tell him was wrong with me? Looking back now, it seems truly ridiculous to be embarrassed by something so minor but picture yourself on a date with tears streaming down your face, smearing your mascara, while you’re making out with a man 12 years your junior. Leaving without explanation was the clearly the best option. A real eye-rish goodb-eye, if you will.
When I’d finally had enough of the nuisance, I went to see an optometrist who sent me to an ophthalmologist who numbed my eye with some drops and THEN STUCK A NEEDLE IN MY TEAR DUCT! That’s how they test your tear duct, by the way. HUGE needle, right into that nearly microscopic hole at the inner edge of your eye and then they squeeze out saline. If it backs up and squirts on your face, you got a real problem. If it moves through down into your throat (imagine the feeling of drowning) then you’re fine, babe. Sadly, I was not fine. The ophthalmologist sent me to an ocular surgeon and that’s where I found out that my tear duct was scarred. The only fix was surgery where they basically cut you a new tear duct (something I’d end up needing for my other eye’s tear duct as well a few months later). Thank god for Canadian healthcare amirite?!?
When I asked the surgeon why this was happening to me, the doctor said it was likely genetics. He also said that it was more common in women than men (smaller bone structure or something), but that they weren’t quite sure why.
“Is it because of all the crying?” I said. The doctor didn’t laugh (which is probably for the best) though I thought it was hilarious. Joke-bombing aside, I was ecstatic. After years of not knowing and thinking maybe this dripping eye would just be my life now, I finally had answers and a solution. I spent the next 3 months dabbing at my eye as tears sporadically trickled down my face and I stopped wearing makeup entirely. I wasn't really a makeup wearer to begin with. I only ever wore it for dates and special occasions. But now that I wasn't able to wear it at all, what would that mean for my dating life?
The night of my date with Tad, I was possibly the most nervous I’ve ever been on a date (where I wasn’t just worried the guy would be weird and embarrass me). I was waiting for my surgery date in a few weeks and because I never knew when my tear duct would act up and tears would start streaming down my face, I was currently avoiding wearing makeup. Well, mostly. I vaguely recall wearing a little bit of powder foundation, which was the most naked my face had been on a date, ever. It’s not like I did nothing to prepare for the date—I did my hair nice and curly, and I showed up for the date with a story and explanation about how I couldn't wear makeup anymore. I was armed to the teeth with my logical, coping self-protection. Only, it turned out I didn't need it. I explained my dilemma and face situation to Tad, and he just looked at me and said, “You look great.”
“I know,” I joked.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
I posed with my hands under my chin as coquettishly as I could muster, turning my face down towards my shoulder, blushing. Fat or not, I had always thought myself beautiful with makeup, but finding myself beautiful without it was a whole new level of self-love and appreciation I hadn't yet acquired. Until that night.
Tad ordered us another round of drinks and I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I don’t know if it was the lighting, Tad’s validation, or just the feeling of freedom that comes from being appreciated exactly as you are—but my god, I’d never looked more beautiful. Tad had said it, and looking at myself in the mirror, I saw what he saw.
Tad was from New York and staying at the dingey motel in my small town, which he explained was because the other hotel (the good one) was booked solid. I’d never stayed in the motel and only ever heard about it because this girl I knew in high school once stayed there with her older boyfriend who had been kicked out of his house. Tad and I matched on Tinder. He was only in town for one night, the final night of a business trip for something I wasn’t paying attention about. Things were going so well, I was already planning a visit to New York in my head.
Over drinks, Tad was like if a button up shirt had done their taxes a month early. He told me about backyard parties in NYC, stories about playing silly games and having a real swell time. He was charming and sweet—displaying a level of friendliness I’d always hoped for on dates but rarely got to enjoy. His light brown hair was screaming for someone to mess it up. When we stood up from the table we were the same height, if even that. I couldn’t have cared less. I was definitely into Tad and only noticed because he had been sitting when I came in and I guess we’d just never discussed height.
We left the restaurant together, and I drove us to the weird little motel, which wasn’t the worst but was nowhere near the best. Tad kissed me while standing near the kitchenette. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and catch my breath. I excused myself to change my panties.