How To Fall In Love Without Really Trying

Part One
When I arrived in Iowa, I had gone almost a decade without watching television. Overwhelmed by the hundreds of programs offered on my brother’s gigantic flatscreen, I spent the first several weeks catching myself up to date while looking for work. As nearly everything on television is constantly being rerun, this wasn’t particularly difficult. One day, while flipping through channels, I paused at some program about guys who have romantic relationships with life-sized dolls. At first I thought it was a documentary Janine had recommended, but then I became curious whether the people on it resembled the character played by the satisfyingly ceaselessly creepy Dennis Hopper in the cult classic movie River’s Edge (1986), starring Crispin Glover (in a hilariously quotable performance), Keanu Reeves and Ione Skye. I really, really enjoy this movie, despite the fact the director seems to have had little clue as to what to do with what he potentially had.

One interviewee in this television program explained that he dates dolls because he doesn’t know how to meet real women. Maybe your conversation ice-breaker needs work, I snickered to myself.

One trait I possess but have never been able to fully explain is that, as an anonymous person in a group of people, I am completely uninteresting. I was always the last kid picked for the elementary recess football team, despite the fact that I wasn’t really too bad. Whenever I go to any gathering with a group of male friends, I watch in the background while girls swoon over everyone in my group except me.

However, and this is a big but, if I am able to finagle myself into a one-on-one conversation in a setting relatively free of distractions, I become a bit of a babe magnet, as long as the girl can get (past) my rather tasteless and often punny sense of humor. Other prerequisites include the avoidance of small-talk, which I can never pull off, and someone who finds cockiness and clumsiness attractive when paired.

Perhaps the lynchpin to this contrast in dating success lies in my rather entrancing baby blue eyes, which I can use to full effect only when I capture someone long enough to lock gazes. I tend to not make eye contact with people I have no interest in; it can cause unwanted attention/confusion. (I fully realize these are ridiculous statements to be making of oneself, but my friends with vouch for me that it’s true: my eyes are magic.)

I had pondered the doll fetish guy’s concern long enough that the next time someone whined, “I don’t know how to meet women,” I’d prepared a rather brilliant (I say so myself) response: “I’ll tell you how to meet them if you tell me how to avoid them.”

My eyes get me in trouble sometimes. One nuisance is I have a rather strong weakness for pretty girls. On another television show, one that I actually enjoy, called Iron Chef America, there’s often a curmudgeonly judge named Jeffrey Steingarten, and in one episode he rudely says to the lubricious Jeri Ryan aka Seven of Nine, “It’s no accident that beautiful women have bad personalities- they think they can get away with anything.” It’s a fact, Jack.

Right after my last relationship ended in misery, females were invisible. I had no interest and no sex drive for perhaps the first time since puberty. This was a very nice state to be in, actually, as it greatly tapered distractions. Then one morning about five months after the fiasco, a woman got onto the bus, and as she turned and bent slightly to put her ticket into the machine, I found myself thinking, holy crap that is a fine ass. Uh, oh. Fortunately, she didn’t sit close enough to make eye contact.

I determined that my next tattoo would be an anatomical heart inside of a birdcage on my ribcage, the most painful area I’ve had inked, to remind myself not to let another girl run recklessly off with my easily-seduced and gullible self. It would also bring to mind Molly, who hearts hearts and is my closest female friend with whom I remained prudently platonic.


Part Two
A few months more solidly on my feet, a co-worker asked whether Carolyn and I had met. “I’ve seen her around,” I deadpanned. Carolyn laughed. I instantly wanted to make her laugh more. Too bad she’s so cute, otherwise she might be fun to converse with, I thought. With the exception of her finely contoured backside, I hadn’t looked at her yet.

When we did get around to striking up a conversation, my tat plans somehow came up. The next time I saw her, she stated, “I’ve been thinking about your tattoo idea- the imagery seems pretty intense.” I heard, “I’ve been thinking about you….”

I decided to find out what this chick was about, which I was obliged to wait a week to do as we work together only on Sundays. In the meantime, that other co-worker mentioned Carolyn was my age. (I can’t discern ages at all.) Noon on Sunday arrived. Carolyn mentioned robots. I heart robots. I mentioned Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. She admitted, “I started watching that but fell asleep. I’ve just been watching a lot of fluff lately, like Dr. Who.”

This is somewhat akin to mentioning to an 80’s era Bulls fan that you’re closely related to Michael Jordan. We’re talking Times Square ball-drop. In fact, I once jokingly declared I model my life after The Doctor to an ex who’d never heard of the show, but months later read aloud a sentence from a book which described it as a “children’s television program,” to which I responded, “That’s harsh.”

It goes without saying that I went into a diatribe about the second (and best!) Doctor (played by Patrick Troughton) and attempted to score some easy bonus points by explaining how the female sidekicks were much stronger characters before Tom Baker, the fourth Doctor, started complaining of being upstaged.

We moved onto hobbies. “Lately, I’ve been trying to learn to skateboard.” Okay, timeout. Molly and I once had a stalemate discussion about which was hotter, girls who skateboard or girls who play bass guitar.

Carolyn and I share an affinity for direct communication, juvenile humor, the absurd and macabre. We both read obituaries, appreciate wandering aimlessly through cemeteries, shop almost exclusively at Goodwill, enjoy science fiction and find children unnerving. We like chess and can’t stand Scrabble. We are bi-centennial babies (and therefore Dragons), which comes in handy when swapping memories as we experienced each year at the same time. When I casually mentioned I would love to study Kendo, she exclaimed, “Swordfighting? Me, too!”

“Too bad our interactions are limited to Sundays during work. We should meet up in another setting sometime. Like dinner, or something?”

“That would be great,” she responded, “but I have dietary restrictions in that I’m a vegetarian.”

“So am I.” I tried not to sound shocked. This is happening in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.

Leaning into the counter which separated our areas of work, my oceanic orbs drank deeply into a pair of bottled whisky worlds. It occurred to me that we were the same height. “Let me get your number and we’ll figure out a time to do something,” I suggested.

“Do you have severed heads in your freezer?” she replied.

“I shrink them so they can be displayed chronologically on my mantle.” My attempt at humor fell flat.

“There’s an Indian restaurant in Hiawatha.” It gets better. “Do you like the X-Men?” It gets better.

After the dinner and movie, my brother asked how it went. I shrugged, “First dates are easy; it’s two years from now that’s the tricky part.” I then instantly bombarded her email box with a series of mistakes and personality traits from previous experiences I intended to avoid henceforth. I realized this might be received as absurd after one date, but my fears were assuaged when she replied not only with answers but a longer list of her concerns. Our sense of ethics, desires and expectations were not just compatible; they were virtually identical.

For our second outing, we played a leisurely game of disc golf on an overcrowded course in Coralville. When Carolyn headed toward the wrong tee early on, I intoned, “Don’t go that way! Never go that way!” in my poor impersonation of a blue-haired worm with a British accent. Our conversation quickly and excitedly turned to all manner of things pertaining to The Labyrinth (1986), but mostly David Bowie and Terry Jones.

By the fifth hole, where the basket lies directly beyond a steep slope, play had bottlenecked. When our turn came, a small crowd had gathered on a little ridge behind us. As I approached the concrete platform, I was remembering that last time I played this course, during which this drive had flown directly into a tree on the right and rolled down the hill before resting under a log just in front of where people were now watching expectantly. (The difficulty in this particular throw lies in that, if you don’t throw the disc steep enough, it won’t clear the incline, but if you throw it too steep, it will tend to fall short and also curve too far to the left. My previous mistake was most likely a result of anticipating I’d error by throwing too steep and attempting to compensate by throwing the disc too far to the right.)

As I positioned my feet for the throw, a voice behind me demanded, “Andrew- don’t fuck it up.”

I glanced back to spy her mischievous grin and responded, “With a crowd, too. Under pressure!” I thought of something and smiled back. “I won’t,” I added, then broke into the Bowie/Queen collaborative bass line famously copped by Vanilla Ice. My drive neatly cleared the incline and landed a few feet in front of the hole.

Based on my dating track record, it would be fair to be skeptical that this relationship will fair better, but after all the dealings with women I’ve had over the past 15+ years, I consider myself something of an expert in the process. Being with Carolyn is both comfortable and engaging, and she has demonstrated herself to be reliable and trustworthy. I already look forward to the tricky part….