Date 15- From Russia with Love

Dimitri showed up in quiet Park Slope with an enormous Porsche SUV; one would have been forgiven for expecting a bejeweled and bechained rapper to step down from behind the wheel. He chose a corner bar that Marcello frequents as he lives only a half a block away; my coworkers mused that it would be the sweetest justice for Marcello to see me on a date with a nice big handsome Russian. What a laugh that would be! Unfortunately Dimitri was a rather small fellow, the top of his head barely reaching the top of my shoulder (I really must examine these Tinder photos more carefully to save all parties from the awkward moment of realizing that I am 6 inches taller than the man). But most importantly, he wasn't a personable or thoughtful fellow; I couldn't tell if he was disinterested or terrible at communication, but I fully expected (and would have been quite fine) to never speak to him again. He looked like he would have rather been trimming nose hairs than having drinks with a dull bird like me.

This brings me to an interesting point: if a man is delightful and the life of the party, a few physical undesirables don't matter. A former boyfriend of mine was a slightly nutty Ukrainian (much like the small Russian- a Jewish entrepreneur with hustle in his veins), and in the beginning I didn't find him terribly attractive. He wasn't conventionally handsome, with rather European teeth and a cromagnon hairline. But he had personality in spades- he could make me laugh from my toes, and was thoughtful, passionate and smart. I ignored that he cried too frequently and went a bit looney in the denouement of our relationship- for a time he was terribly fun to date and possibly the best passport a girl could have to the 5 boroughs.

Anyhow, Porsche-driving Dimitri and I had the requisite Tinder two drinks, plodding through tedious conversation about travel and apartments, and headed our separate ways. He doesn't offer me a ride home in his ostentatious SUV so I strut home 20 blocks, thankful that Marcello didn't walk through the door of the bar.

DATE FIFTEEN- Just like Dr. Zhivago...if you completely forgot how the story goes.

APERTIF DU JOUR- Brighton Beach Bummer.

WARNING LABEL- Beware of horseradish vodka.