Date 10- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

After a really lovely 10 days with my parents, including a week of us sharing my little one bedroom apartment, they fly back to the West Coast. I miss them terribly and am sad to see them go; what is better than your father walking you to the subway, and your mother standing on a bench and waving when you return from work? The commuters thought she was bat shit crazy, but that is just how we are. They are funny, and they are mine.

I say goodbye to my crazy parents and return to my normal life. I have heavy thoughts pending- stresses at work, a reunion with the unpredictable Italian, and a half marathon hangover. Throughout my parents' visit, Marcello and I have stayed in touch. He sometimes gets nutty and calls over and over, occasionally goes silent. A perverse part of me was dying for him to meet my parents; the realistic part knows the apparent facts- 49! Divorced! Two teenaged kids in another state!- will never win my parents over. Then there are my own private observations I do not share with friends and rarely acknowledge to myself- his selfishness, his mean streak, his mockery of my running, his need to be the focus, his manipulative temperament. He isn't simple, and even if those marquee issues were resolved because Love Conquers All, I need to start thinking about things.

But not tonight. There are other men pending but he is the Hot Date, and the only one I want.

I sense something is off with him on this day though. He usually sends a "good morning, amore" text, some sort of communication, but today he is silent. I am wearing a beautiful cream linen shirt slit completely up the sides with a hint of floral bra exposed, skinny black jeans and metallic leather jacket, since I anticipate seeing him the minute I leave the office. As 4 pm rolls around, I start to panic and sense something is off. My coworkers encourage me to text him and see what is happening- I don't know him well, but this seems very uncharacteristic. At 6:30pm, as I have reached full meltdown status and am ready to leap off the balcony, he texts to say he is sick. He has been sick all day. Fever. Feels terrible. I push my chair back from my desk and drop my head in my hands; he is blowing me off. My woman's intuition screams it loud- fuck whatever he is saying because I don't believe it. FUCK HIM, he is lying and didn't even care to do it well. Something better came along, a surer bet that would take care of his needs, or maybe younger and prettier. Whoever it is, she trumped me. My coworker, who has become one of my dearest friends, is shocked and indignant on my behalf, as she has been forced to live through this play by play; she looks even more shocked when I start crying. It isn't him, it isn't Marcello...its THIS! This meaningless cycle of dates and drinks and "so do you like to travel?" and disposable people; it takes a toll after the initial thrill. I had a man, a decent man, who wanted to marry me, and here I am swimming with sharks and assholes. I am crying because I spent so many years without an electric connection that I can't fathom Marcello has options that thrill him equally. Is he that lucky? Does he find this kind of chemistry so readily that he tosses me aside? I am sick to my stomach, but try and play along with his texts. He never apologizes, never tries to reschedule, simply says he is very, very sick. Spin, spin, spin your bullshit all you want, but I know the truth in my bones.

This Tinder World makes salty dogs out of the best of us, so as I sensed the denouement coming (and my own mental state rapidly declining), I picked up texting with a fellow we shall heretofore call Tree. As other Tinderers have told me, you have to protect yourself and start rustling up other dates when shit hits the fan. A bit of back story: I was at a Super Bowl party (before I began my online journey to love) when a friend said she had recently been on a date with a fellow she thought I should meet, as it would be a better fit. I am open to anything and anyone right now, so I told her to go ahead and set it up. He texted me a few days later, with a generic hello followed by "So if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?" Naturally this stirred up much derision and discussion in my corner. Should I say cactus, because that is how I feel? Or does that give an unfriendly impression and indicate I don't shave my legs? Or should I say Redwood, because I'm quite tall? I settled on Palm- long, lean, Southern Californian. Anyhow, we texted intermittenly, with conversations and dates never culminating in an actual encounter. I had honestly forgotten about Tree when a Tinder gentleman started messaging me and admitted that he was sure we had already been introduced; he simultaneously started texting which nearly made me jump out of my skin. Tree had found me on the Tinder! Is no one safe?! We agreed that this is clearly destiny and we must meet. At long last schedules align, I get blown off by Marcello, and agree to meet spontaneously. 8pm in Williamsburg will be the scene of the crime (where he lives), and I pretend to conveniently be in the neighborhood with friends when in truth I am wandering the streets aimlessly, tortured and mentally masturbating about where everything went wrong with Marcello. I can't even focus on handbags in a vintage store, so wrapped up in my thoughts am I. In truth I could care less about meeting Tree; I simply can't be alone right now and all my key people are busy.

He picks a corner restaurant I have been to before, very Williamsburg with requisite exposed bulbs and rustic wiring. He is nice and smart, but I can't figure out why my friend was so sure we should meet. He has a schtick that I surmise has developed after years of online dating, which perhaps also explains the bizarre tree question. Is this what online dating does to a person? Turns them into Johnny Carson in a plaid shirt? But we carry on discussing food, wine, music, and he is charming if not particularly handsome. I mention that I sang at my friend's wedding and his eyes light up. He literally grabs me and turns me to face him saying, "Ok, now we really have to talk". At one point he launches into a feminist-leaning diatribe on "Girls", as he finds it to be insulting to young women and makes an impassioned plea for more dignified writing. Unfortunately I have had too much champagne on an empty stomach and need to go home to shame eat on my couch; I am sure Lena Dunham would want it that way. He insists on calling an Uber- "you'll learn this about me, I insist on getting my date an Uber home"- which makes me think he is the King of online dating with such ritualized habits. But I suppose I made a comeback tonight with a decent guy. Not an exciting, wild ride like I thought I was due to have...but a normalish, nice person. He texts that he wants to book the next date immediately, before the Uber even reaches my apartment. Its quite a comeback from crying at my messy desk, but I keep wondering...who is Marcello with tonight?

TENTH DATE- LIKE DESTINY'S CHILD PREACHED, IMA SURVIVOR

GARDEN VARIETY- I AM A BANANA TREE, BITCH

COCKTAIL VARIETY- REAL MEN DRINK PROSECCO