If you missed part one you can catch up on it here: Homecoming: Part One
He showed up wearing white nurses’ sneakers, which wouldn’t have been so bad except that it was the first disappointment of many—strike one. I couldn’t help but wonder if some of the disappointment was my fault—If I hadn’t maybe gone into our first date high off of my experiences in Montreal. Maybe my experiences in Montreal weren’t even that great, but that in the rosy glow of hindsight I had made them all feel far more impressive than they were.
We met for coffee, and he showed up looking like someone had let all the air out of all his pictures. This was my first date back in Vancouver and it was an absolute garbage fire (minor hyperbole). If it sounds like I’m being too harsh (I am) I want you to consider a thing or two about first dates. I want you think about how much things like effort and risk are gendered; how when a woman goes on a first date she’s risking her safety (and her sanity) and that the effort it took to make herself presentable (by the standards of our modern patriarchy) is intense.
I once wrote an article about how the reason I think (nay, demand) men should pay on the first date (and if they know what’s good for them, several more) is because of the financial investment women are forced to make in our appearances. The cost of makeup, pink tax on razors and shaving cream, the disgusting price of bras (especially if you got big knockers and especially especially if you’re also plus-size), to name a few. Then there’s the waxing appointments and the hair styling that for some reason always costs us more, not to mention the gender pay gap. This is all to say that even showing up to a date has puts women financially and emotionally in debt, so if a man is not paying on the first date he can absolutely get fucked (but not by me).
He had originally suggested we meet at a Tim Horton’s and like, I’m Canadian but I’m not that Canadian so we met at Starbucks. When he showed up wearing space boots and cargo shorts, I couldn’t help but think about how much I had prepared for this date: strapping myself into an uncomfortable bra, putting on a full face of makeup, styling my hair (using the eight or so products it takes to tame my curls not to mention at least a half hour of flipping and defusing and scrunching and whatever the fuck magic it takes to appear decent looking). I had done all that and driven the half hour it took to meet in his area. So, when you hear me describe his appearance with sharp judgement and no time for bullshit, I beg of you to have a little empathy for what I’d already been through up to point.
A first date is supposed to be your best foot forward and here was this young dude showing up with his chicken legs in shorts and goddamn pillows on his feet while I looked adorable and perfectly put together (obviously I’m biased but whatever you’re on my side so just believe me). First dates are for appearing impressive and fuckable—and let me tell you, no one has ever gotten wet for clown shoes and cargo shorts. We stood at the counter ordering our drinks, and he ordered hot chocolate, which is a stupid thing to be bothered by, but it served to remind me that I was now on a date with a child who had tried to convince me he was a man and it had me thinking I was about to be his mentor rather than have good time. Strike two.
We sat at a booth in the back (because I was already dying of embarrassment and wondering how long exactly I had to stay before I could end the date).
I was sipping my coffee thinking of how to salvage this date when I noticed his fingers, which were all sporting big hunks of gold.
He noticed my glance and offered, “They’re hockey championship rings.”
I leaned in, finally something intriguing to get us back on track. “You play hockey?” I asked.
“No.”
I stifled an awkward laugh of dismay. “Then why do you have the rings?”
“I had them made,” he said like that wasn’t totally bonkers.
“You just…had them made...for yourself?”
He nodded without even the tiniest hint of embarrassment or awareness. I drank my coffee so fast it burned my throat. Strike three—this date was over.
Space boots texted later to see if I wanted to hang out again. Of course, I didn’t, which I thought would’ve been clear by how short our date was, but I shouldn’t have been surprised by his lack of awareness, after all this was a man making awards for accomplishments that weren’t his. I often wonder how men end up this way—is it just simply because they’re straight and hetero and the world is mostly handed to them on a platter, so they never learn about social interactions and how little they have to offer? It made me think that perhaps he’d been on hundreds of other dates where things had gone smoothly so that now in this aberration it didn’t even occur to him that he’d have to be intelligent and charming and fun. It never even occurred to him that he’d have to read some body language and signs. All my signs were stop.