March 29, 2011 by Kat Richter
My one o’clock has been pissing me off for the past week and a half—and we’ve not even met. This is because he’s new to Philadelphia and as such, he’s just like me a year ago: no commitments aside from the occasional work meeting, nothing to do on weekends and more free time than a retired train spotter.
As such, he’s taken a rather lackadaisical approach to our first meeting—so lackadaisical in fact that I would have given up on him entirely if not for his height (very good), his way with words (equally good) and the fact that he balked at the idea becoming a 9-5er after graduating from college and moved to Europe instead.
Having never worked 9-5 (the closest I ever came was 10-6) I have a soft spot for men whose bohemian inclinations match my own.
(That said, I also have a soft spot for men who wouldn’t recognize a youth hostel if they stumbled right into a drunken orgy of rumpled backpackers. Men without bohemian inclinations, you see, dress nicely and treat their girlfriends to expensive dinners at fancy places. They have houses and cars and remember to file their taxes on time, unlike Yours Truly.)
As such, I forgive my one o’clock for his inability to schedule our first date because “spontaneity” comes with the territory. I agree to meet him at Java Company (so that I can get back in time to change my shoes and get ready for my next date) and head out, dressed in my very best bohemian chic (black turtleneck, ripped jeans, high heeled boots, silver belt, silver earrings and courtesy of my mother’s jewelry box, a huge, chunky silver ring).
My date is sporting a fair amount of jewelry himself (also silver) but seeing has he’s paired it all with a pair of cargo pants, sneakers, and some sort of EMS-looking shirt, the effect is more rugged and “Why yes, I did get these bracelets from Tibetan monks in the Himalayas” than metrosexual.
We talk about Spain and living abroad and our favorite youth hostels and even though he doesn’t offer to buy my chai, he seems rather impressed by my choice in beverage and especially by the fact that I’ve requested it with soy milk. He tries to convince me that rock climbing is actually very similar to dancing and that I could be quite good at it if I was to give it another go. When he admits that he’s only been in Philadelphia for a month, I start gushing about my favorite hot spots and am rather pleased to realize that I know quite a few of them these days.
Throughout our entire conversation, which eventually comes to verge on the philosophical, a single word keeps flashing in my mind: sexy. He is oh-so-sexy and the fact that he couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair only adds to his charm.
I wonder what it would be like to be with him long term. Would it work—a relationship in which both halves suffer from acute wanderlust? We could have matching His and Hers backpacks of course, and we could share jewelry but I’d probably have to nag him to wear a tie for important events and at the end of the day—
Except it’s not the end of the day. Its only 2:15, and I have another date across town at 3:00.
So I say goodbye. He kisses me on both cheeks (“Spanish style”) and tells me he’ll know to “book me” a week in advance from now on.
“Yes,” I reply with a smile, “call my secretary.” And with that, I head home to change my shoes and get ready for my three o’clock at the zoo.