Language Barriers and Mis-Steps: Date #4 with France (Part One)

Deadpan texting

 

Part of me wants to skip ahead to the big event.  The 4th date.  But if I do, some valuable insights might be lost.

When France first messaged me on POF, way back when (is it weird that it seems like a lifetime ago when it reality it was about 5 weeks?  It feels like my entire life has changed in that time period [not because of him just concurrently]).  But I digress, so way back when, I remember tweeting out a question to my followers.  It asked something like:

Can you really date someone when there’s a language barrier?

At the time, I had actually thought no, probably not.  However, many people thought it was no big deal.  So I gave it the old college try.  And it was a struggle, I readily admit, but then so is life isn’t it?…a struggle?

In the days that followed the “no condoms debacle of 2012” or the “France in the Pants Situation” (as I like to call it), there were quite a few moments that got lost in translation.

 

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The time he texted this…. (y)

Was it a mistake?  A phone or technological screw up?  Some romantic hieroglyphic?  An emoticon I should be familiar with?

I tried to ask.  He ended asking if I had sent him pics.  There was a lot of ??? and ??? followed by me just texting forget it and trying to move the conversation in another direction.

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The time he texted to tell me he was going to a penthouse party in Ottawa and I told him to have fun, but not too much fun I joked, and then said that I hoped the party would be filled with skinny girls *winky face* *cheeky tongue stick out* (as he was so obviously NOT into that).

He ended up responding something about how no, just a good friend.  Like he had thought I was really jealous or something.

Luckily I saved the moment when I told him I was just trying to be cute…which of course he thought was cute.

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And then I thought all the mis-steps were over.  But isn’t that dating?  The mis-steps?  No?  Just dating me, you say?  Blargh.

He returned from Ottawa the next day and asked me to hang out the following night.  I said sure.  We made plans to hang out at 9pm.

But speaking of mis-steps….

The next day arrived and when no text message came, ya know, just to say hi…I started to have that feeling.  That feeling, that I have…way too fucking often if we’re being real about it.  That feeling that he would bail.  Okay, certainly I’d been given no reason thus far to think he would and given that, on our first date, we had talked about “dating pet peeves”, and I had, in no uncertain terms, expressed that my biggest pet peeve was time wasters, I had no real reason to think he would bail.  I mean, honestly, is it really that difficult not to be a total douchebag, and let someone know if you’re going to bail.  The only thing more irritating to me then a flaky person is a flaky person who makes me go to the trouble of figuring out they’re a flake.

Example 1:  You can’t make our plans tonight, you let me know the moment you know this.  Forgivable.

Example 2:  You can’t make our plans tonight, you say nothing.  You wait for me to text and double check that we are in fact still on for the evening.  Then you bail.  I literally want to stab your fucking eyes out.  I may or may not start listening to the Talking Heads Psycho Killer and plotting your demise.  Blargh.

He chose option 2.  I was not impressed.  Gave some bullshit excuse about it being a busy day, called me sweet and that was that.  Ok.  I said.

I hoped he could taste my frustration.  I hoped it tasted like drinking grapefruit juice after brushing your teeth.  In all honesty, he probably thought it was no big deal and wasn’t even phased.

We didn’t talk for 3 days.  It was over the weekend.  No big deal.  Truth is, thanks to facebook I still managed to have too much unnecessary information.  He’d waited outside all night for some limited edition Jordan’s.  It all just felt…so…being 24.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a dude with a good shoe game but I also love a dude with a car, and a life, and a plan.  It all just felt so…me…at 22 or 24…fucking around buying shit I didn’t need.

That being said, what the fuck did I care what he spent his money on?  I didn’t.

And then he texted.  All was forgiven and we made plans to hang out that night.  He was going to come over at 10pm.

And then 10pm showed up.  And he did not.

10:15pm — I sent a text message are you almost here.  No response.

10:30pm — I sent another ???

11:00pm — I sent a final text.  Now I know this may make me seem naive, or like a pushover, but in general I try to assume the best and thus use a kill them with kindness approach.  The text said Hey cutie…so…um so what’s going on?  Has something happened or are you standing me up? 🙁

Gotta love that sad face.  Which was really more of a I’m going to stab you face, but whatever.  The rage was palpable.  It tasted like throwing my computer on the ground, smashing it to a million pieces and then crying in public. Or apples.  Whatever.

The only upside to the whole business was this time I HAD done my hair and makeup.  And fuck if I was going to sit around and do nothing.  So I did the obvious thing.  I took the obvious approach.  And took a bunch of narcissitic self-photos.  I mean shit, it had been forever since I’d updated my facebook profile photo.  And hadn’t I just lost like 20lbs.?!?   So in true melodramatic form, I posted on my facebook that I thought I had been stood up (at the point that thinking I’d been stood up and not having it be a real tangible thing was still realistic)…and then posted a new pic.

The response was overwhelming (Jesus! I love my friends).  They were all so bloody adorable about how awesome I looked that I was literally — this close to going out, on my own, in Montreal.  Admittedly not something outside of my wheelhouse.  But also try to remember that I’m sober.  I’m 30.  And it was already like 11:45pm at night.

And then the text showed up.  Sorry sweet, I fell asleep.  What are you doing?

This was followed by several texts of me being deadpan (can you be deadpan in a text? well, if you can…I was it), and him apologizing over and over with the explanation that because he’d spent the night before out on the street waiting for the shoes blah blah blah.

Now’s here the thing.  I know myself and if I’m pissed at you and then we have no contact…well shit…it doesn’t look good for you.  However, if I’m pissed and I see you in person, there’s a high possibility of forgiveness.  It’s that simple (well…in relation to the offense mind you).

Eventually I told him that he should come over.  His response was I’ll be there in 15.

And then he was.  Here.  At my apartment.  And I was letting him in.

 

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Don't worry my parents don't think I'm funny either. Grad Student. My breasts aren't ashamed of me either. You and me kid, we're going to change this world.