Fate of this date was in our stars
I’m a firm believer in signs. Zodiac and otherwise. After my almost sevenmonth relationship with a fellow water sign was anything but smooth sailing, I reluctantly went back to the world of swiping after my friends urged me to “get back out there.”
After weeks with no luck, an attractive and successful 32-yearold reached out on Hinge. His opening line was a Drake lyric and he had an adorable French bulldog, so I was pretty much sold. After days of messaging, we exchanged numbers.
He said that although he couldn’t wait to meet, he was traveling for work, which he had to do quite a bit. So he suggested the next best thing and scheduled a phone call. (I thought this was very mature, given the many prospects who exist only on Instagram direct message.)
The phone call lasted an hour and a half. We chatted about everything from our music tastes (similar), our birthdays (because I like signs, remember?) and our upbringings. He told me he was a Libra, and bells went off in my head that he might be the air sign I had been searching for all along. We made a date for the following Wednesday.
(After the conversation, I told my roommates I would consider meeting him halfway between our condo in Century City and his house in Sherman Oaks. In trafficclogged L.A., that’s serious commitment!)
The next six days crept by with more hourlong phone calls amid his work travels. On date night, I didn’t have to drive toward the Valley: He suggested a spot near my home, the Roger Room in West Hollywood. He even offered to have his Uber swing by and pick me up — a modern-day knight in shining armor.
During my musings about what to wear (the forecast said rain, and the warmest jacket I own is faux leather), I recalled the last time I went to the Roger Room about a year ago: It was a weeknight date with an almost too-good-to-betrue Libra — the conversation flowed, the date went well, and he told me he’d call when he got back from a work trip to Costa Rica ... but never did. Hey, wait a sec, was this a sign? I decided to ignore the superstitious voice in my head.
In the Uber, he joked with the driver that it was our one-year anniversary and that he was taking me back to the place we first met. The driver and I were both charmed.
The evening that followed was full of witty banter. We even got around to sharing dating horror stories. I had more to divulge than he did. He disclosed he had gotten out of a four-year relationship a year earlier and was just starting to dip his toe into the online dating pool. At one point, he complimented my openness and honesty: He said he was too busy to not be straightforward, so he always told women how he felt about them as early as possible.
When we were wrapping up at the bar three hours later, he said he’d thoroughly enjoyed himself and wanted to see me again before his next work trip. And I believed him. As per his request, I texted him when I got home that night, but there was no return message that night or the next 10 nights.
I tried to remain positive and drove my friends to insanity with constant questioning about whether I should play it cool or follow up first.
I finally got the courage to reach out in response to an Instagram story he posted at LAX, wishing him a “bon voyage.”
My message remained on “seen” until four hours later, when all I received in return was the ugly red monster emoji. Maybe the ghost emoji would have been more applicable? I had gotten the hint. But my emotions still got the best of me.
I texted something along the lines of, “Forgive the volatile Scorpio in me, but why did you feel the need to ghost me after touting yourself as a mature, straightforward kind of guy who always spoke his mind?”
When all I got back was a “Wow,” I realized the signs were there from the beginning and I just failed to follow them.
For now I’ve added my zodiac sign to my multitude of dating profiles (Hinge, Bumble, JSwipe).
If you catch me on there, be sure to tell me your birthday. And don’t suggest the Roger Room for a date.