Well here’s an unexpected development. I’ve already mentioned that my return to Match.com has uncovered some repeat offenders and this is to be expected (surely I’m not the only glutton for punishment here in the City of Brotherly Love.) Although I was surprised to find Date #5 still trolling the waters (surely someone would have snapped him up by now?) it was an email to my Match.com account that really threw me for a loop.
The email, you see, was not from Date #5 (whose move to New York evidently did not take place) but rather from Date #4.
Date #4, as you may recall, played a leading role in last summer’s Great Date Experiment. It was Date #4 (aka He Who Wore Cufflinks) who took me to Time, Date #4 who sang to me on my birthday and Date #4 who offered me his shoulder to cry upon after the whole Temple University debacle. Of course, no actual crying took place; he treated to me to dinner at Smtih and Wollensky’s instead, then to dessert at Parc, and finally convinced the doorman at the fancy apartment complex on Rittenhouse Square to let us take a peek inside the lobby by referring to me as his “girlfriend”; it was at this point that I decided to A) run through the sprinkler system that keeps Rittenhouse lush and green throughout the summer and B) to finally kiss Date #4.
A week later, however, when we reached that oh-so-crucial fifth date, the relationship began to self destruct.
We lost touch nearly seven months ago.
Even though I was pleased to discover that he was still searching for the love of his life on Match.com (albeit in an embarrassingly bitchy “Sucks for you!” sort of way) I didn’t dare to click on his profile.
This is because Match keeps track of users who view your profile and provides you with this information through a handy dandy daily summery. I know this because back in the day, I used to enjoy clicking through Date #4’s photographs (there’s a very sexy one of him drinking a cup of coffee) and he accused me of cyber stalking him.
Obviously I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Instead I was going to be cool.
Instead I was going to be calm.
Instead I was going to pretend that I couldn’t care less about whatever happened to Date #4 and why he blew me off when I brought his attention to the fact that our dates always took place on his time, at his favorite places—and believe it or not, I was all of these things, despite my curiosity.
Nonetheless, less than a week into the renewal of my Match.com subscription, I received an email from Mr. Cufflinks himself. He’s since invited me to meet him for a drink at his private members-only club. (Right smack in the middle of Center City of all places!)
The ink is barely dry on the article I wrote about resisting the urge to “reheat old soup” for my friend Dennis’s site (part of which will look familiar), and I know that Date #4 and I failed miserably over the summer but still… it’s just a drink.
Thoughts? (It occurs to me now that the phrase “It’s just a drink” may be the most clichéd last words ever.)