Date 12- Playing House

Vanilla, in his broken state, throws himself a small birthday gathering at his friend's bar in the West Village. He casually invited me at our last date and I felt pressured to say yes, but as we near the date, I feel increasingly reluctant to a) spend time with him, and b) negotiate the tedious landscape of introductions to his friends. What will he say? I have already stepped on a few landmines with him, including his discovery that I "unmatched" with him on the Tinder app. A friend advised me that once you go on a date with a gentleman and they are in possession of your actual phone number, you should unmatch with them so you and your information (and updates as to how often your skanky self is trolling for dates) is invisible. I'm not sure Vanilla is as conniving as other people I know, and he seemed totally alarmed by it.

"I was trying to show your photos to a friend of mine but you disappeared. Did you delete Tinder?" he asks with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

"Uh, um, ah, well...my friend told me you are supposed to unmatch after the first date. Is that not what the kids are doing these days?" My weaseling was fairly obvious and I could tell he was disappointed.

Isn't dating a study in raised expectations and disappointments? One fantastic opening cocktail, which is always a surprise because Tinder forces you to walk in expecting the worst possible outcome, and you think to yourself, "I broke my unlucky streak! I met someone normal/interesting/not obviously homicidal! I might not die alone and miserable!" This is when it all goes downhill, because no one is as sweet and innocent as they seem, even people who are sweet and innocent.

I stay at work late on this Friday night, and tell Vanilla that I can't make birthday drinks, but I'm happy to have him over when he gets back to Park Slope. He mentioned the last time I saw him that he had a fantasy of me making him breakfast, which shows that he is a) deranged and begging for food poisoning, and b) desperately needs to get himself wifed up. I haven't seen a man in years that so obviously wanted an immediate girlfriend; poor fool shouldn't have gotten himself tangled in my web. I tell him that I will make him a birthday breakfast to make up for missing his cocktail hour, and he happily agrees.

This is the part of being in a relationship I love the most, so I will pretend briefly even if it is for the wrong man: shopping for groceries the night before, planning a little menu to impress, having a reason to pull out all the lovely little kitchen things I've been buying. I can practice on him, as I can't really get out of this birthday situation now without looking like an asshole to a man who is having a rough time. He comes over and I'm freshly showered, and try and put on a cheerful show. We kiss lightly, discuss work a bit, then get back into the never ending discussion of his family matters. My visceral attraction to him is fading quickly, and I'm having a difficult time pretending I have the remotest patience for his physical limitations.

In the morning, I wake up early and leisurely make breakfast: blueberry muffins, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, scrambled eggs with avocado and tomato, bacon. I ignore that I don't really want the man I am making breakfast for, and just enjoy this moment. I hope desperately in my heart it won't be long before I can do this for someone I am crazy about; I miss taking care of a man, even in my selfish and limited way. After we eat, I encourage him to get moving and pretend to have plans; its time to delete this man and move on to newer prospects. If I am honest with myself, I used him as a placebo for Marcello. I am not afraid of Vanilla because a man like this can be easily controlled, but I can't trust myself with Marcello, nor can I trust him.

DATE TWELVE- You snooze, you lose.

BRUNCH OFFERING- The freshest, if not the friskiest ingredients

VERDICT- UP THE FOOD CHAIN.