Bette and Morris
Bette is a 56-year-old pharmaceutical-sales representative who lives “just east of Toronto.”
She says, “I would describe myself as ‘a bundle of petite energy.’ I’m youthful in spirit, and in the way I dress.” Bette says she is “sassy and fun, with a good sense of humour.”
She says, “I love to scout for interesting events with my sidekicks: live music, brunch, happy hour, concerts; really, anything with positive energy.” Bette has been single for five years, and describes her dating life as “sparse.”
She asks “Where are the funny, smart, tender-yet-strong men?”
After not going on any dates for a couple of months, my girlfriend wanted to set me up with a friend of hers who was also single. She gave Morris my phone number, and after a conversation or two, he asked me out.
He invited me to come to dinner at his apartment, as he wanted to show me his gourmet cooking skills firsthand. I wasn’t sure if going to someone’s home for a first date was appropriate, even with a friend in common, so I expressed my apprehension. After assuring me he would be a perfect gentleman, I accepted. First mistake. Big mistake.
When I arrived, Morris was stationed in his well-appointed kitchen, aglass of wine already poured for me. He looked quite dashing: handsome and well-dressed. I was impressed. We talked, laughed, shared stories and nibbled on the wonderful appetizers he had obviously gone to a lot of effort to make. I watched him as he breezed around the kitchen, deftly multitasking between frying pans, knives, and whisks, all while engaging in an interesting conversation. He was a pleasure to talk to. I was thinking to myself: this guy is getting another date for sure.
What I didn’t notice was that, apparently, Morris had a few too many nips at the wine before I had arrived, and while he was cooking.
After we sat down to eat, out of nowhere, he made a rather vulgar comment. I was startled, and became immediately uncomfortable. He must have sensed it, but instead of taking the cue and toning in down, he poured it on even more. I know a red flag when I see one, and this red flag had “LCBO” written all over it. I possibly should have left then. Second mistake.
I discretely moved my leg when I felt his knee under the table, hoping it would serve as a physical cue, but I sensed that he almost took it as a challenge of some kind.
In my quest to return to the lighthearted discussion we were having in the kitchen, I turned the conversation to something else, hoping that a change of topic may indicate that I wasn’t interested in going in the direction he was trying to take.
I was relieved when he perked up and got into talking about other things, but then he returned to a belligerent tone with some other comment. I nearly choked, but I was determined to manoeuvre my way through the rest of the evening. Patience and diplomacy are the keys to working with difficult people in stressful situations, so I just let him go on, hoping he would burn out on this approach eventually.
When we finished eating, we retired to the deck to have dessert. I stayed the obligatory 45 minutes after eating, and out of sheer politeness, feebly tried to make some sort of small talk.
By this point, Morris knew this evening was not going to go anywhere, and he decided to get sulky and sar- castic. It was the last straw. I finally announced it was time for me to go home, and shook his hand as we said goodbye.
By the time I arrived home, there was a text from him saying that I was “a waste of time” and sarcastically thanking me for helping clean up (which I hadn’t). I wrote back with a simple “Classy.”
The next morning, he apologized, and blamed it all on too much wine. As if being drunk was a great excuse!
I was relieved when he perked up and got into talking about other things, but then he returned to a belligerent tone with some other comment