An Acquired Taste

I drove home from a date on the cusp of tears. I wanted to cry, but the interior flood gates remained shut. It seemed like a perfect moment to cry with the dreary scent of perfume and hairspray saturating the driver and passenger seats. The darkness weighed in and around me. An obnoxious amount of time passed since another car flicked by. I felt like the road kept existing for me. I began to wonder how far my gas tank would take me. Ohio? Illinois? Maybe I want to go east. New York? Pennsylvania? My father always told me that, if I ever really desired it, I could drive all the way to Miami for a long weekend. He made sure I knew which highways ran north and south and which ones ran east and west. He hasn’t travelled much but, if he wanted it bad enough, I think he could. 

My hands gripped the steering wheel. In a final attempt to cry, I tried thinking of something really sad like my mother dying or working a job I hate. I also tried thinking about the fourth grade boy who returned to school after being treated for leukemia. That had made my mom cry. We watched it on the local news. The boy walked through a channel of classmates clapping and cheering for his healthy return. I saw my mom’s cheeks grow red like a vodka reaction. Then her eyes swelled and I rubbed her back until the feeling subsided. Nothing was sad or happy enough in this moment for me to cry. I felt myself surrendering to the absence of emotion, the place I fear most where no hope or creativity resides. 

The date was a pile of ash. It was like sifting through debris and rubble, trying to make it sound less toxic. When I asked for a glass of the house red, the waiter, with bleached hair and a broad chest, told me that they don’t really have a house red. I told him to bring me any red they had. He asked which blend I preferred. Lighter or darker. Smokier or smoother. I remembered my step father describing a red wine as light at my birthday dinner the week before. It was a lovely pairing with my entree of lamb chops and creamy risotto and crunchy green beans. A light red would be great, I said.

As I sipped my glass of wine, leaving cherry lip stamps on the rim, I tried to let my body sink into the leather booth. I wanted to release my weight and feel permanent. In a few more gulps of wine I would be right there. He drank water from a short, cylinder glass. The ice cubes knocked into each other like chilly bones. He drank cup after cup of water. Our waiter was quick and happy to refill. He carried the water pitcher to our table with a long smirk pulled across his face. He walked with one arm folded along his back like an English butler. I sort of expected him to have an accent. 

There is nothing more deadening inside than scrounging your mind for light-hearted, substantial questions to ask on a date. Part of me relied on the slim chance that our conversations  would be natural and cut smoothly like a crisp apple. But I realized, rather quickly, that instead of effortless transitions and unencumbered questions, I would be picturing a map of the United States as he listed all of the places he’s been. In a flirtatious manner, I told him that it might be easier for him to list the states he hasn’t been to because that would be a shorter list. He might have laughed, but I didn’t hear anything. He carried on with the list and I sipped my wine. 

At some point during the meal we talked about shoes. What are your favorite pair of shoes and why, I asked. This was a question a short, bubbly girl had asked me at my old college. I remember being impressed with the question’s surprisingly personable nature. He finished chewing a piece of grilled Greek chicken and told me that white Nike’s are his favorite. He said he likes how a white shoe looks polished and I agreed. We also agreed that, although they are hard to keep clean, it is still worth buying a pair of white shoes. I put a ripe slice of avocado in my mouth and smiled. Then I decided to share my incredible dislike for black sneakers. They aren’t stylish. It’s not a good look. I can’t stand them. He shifted in the booth and I noticed a pink haze develop on his cheeks. Well that’s good to know, he said. I looked under the booth. His black sneakers were doubled knotted and staring up at me like two offended school girls. He laughed at my passionate hatred toward his shoes but I still felt bad. I apologized and ate a forkful of butternut squash covered in sprouts.

When the check came, I reached for my purse right away. It didn’t feel right to have him pay for the whole meal. I suggested that we each pay half. Actually, my exact words were, “Why don’t we go dutch?” I put my credit card on top of his fifty dollar bill and told the waiter to split the check evenly. Later, when I told my best friend about going dutch, she said he still should have paid. But I was the one who had a glass of wine and insulted his shoes, I told her. Still, she said, it was a date. 

Before we left the restaurant I used the restroom. I walked down a flight of stairs, passed a hallway of oblong mirrors, and entered the bathroom. On my way out, I stopped in front of one of the mirrors. I looked at myself dead in the eye, trying to see if anyone was in there. Brown and white and black with swirls of hazel and tints of the slightest, most lenient green. Then I looked at my nose and mouth. My lips were stained red from the Dior lipstick I had put on in the car two hours ago. When a woman walked out of the bathroom I jogged back up the stairs. 

Outside, the temperature was perfect, a mild January evening. I wanted to stay downtown and walk around or maybe grab a coffee, but I knew the only way to regain my solitude would be to let him walk me back to my car and say goodbye first. We walked side by side, passing bars and restaurants bustling with college students. Our conversation was recycled commentary on his unfamiliarity with the area and his desire to change that. At each corner, I pointed before we turned. His body jolted every time, proving his foreignness. When we reached the parking garage, I told him that my car was on the fourth level, thinking this would separate us but he walked up all four flights of stairs with me. I started counting cigarette butts and bobby pins and colorful splotches of gum smashed by a foot. I smelt the remnants of smoke. When we reached the fourth level, he made a joke about not having to exercise tomorrow after that climb. At my car, I initiated the hug. He pressed his torso into mine like a cold, firm handshake between men. I had a great time, he said. My eyes flickered in the foggy lighting. My words stumbled. We turned away from each other and walked our separate ways. 

I sat in the running car for a while with the heat up and flipping through channels on the radio. I tried calling my best friend but she didn’t answer. She was probably watching a movie with her mom or cleaning or packing up her clothes to move back to college. I stared at the concrete wall in front of me. The solidity and permanence of it. My eyes relaxed, vision fading. I took in the balmy scent of my Jimmy Choo perfume. It is how I imagine an eccentric French grandmother’s cluttered closet to smell, with her vintage jackets and thin, sheer dresses and a tattered jewelry box filled with gold pendants and turquoise. I love how scents make me think up scenes, linking it back to where it was born.

My desire for a cup of coffee had faded. I wanted to be home, peeling the tights off my legs and collapsing into bed. I drove like a slow parade float out of the parking garage, waiting for the radio to acquire a signal. A drowning female voice cut in and out of the stereo in sorrowful fragments. I took a right out of the parking garage and started east toward the highway. On the corner, a black man, wearing a thick wool coat and leather gloves, played his saxophone. A young woman walked by and dropped a dollar into his hat. The man smiled at her and I smiled to myself. 

As I merged onto the highway, the voice of Mina Fossati, an Italian artist, filled my car. Her voice flowed out of the speakers slowly, flattening onto the car floor. As the song continued, the impact of her voice began to rise, reaching the seat belts, the center console, the glove compartment. The sounds purged me. I started to feel heavy and permanent just as I had desired at dinner. Mina’s voice reminds me of what I expected Thursday nights to feel like as a young woman. Lonely and sorrowful, but sexy nonetheless. I stared at the road in front of me. Mina’s voice pulled me under. I let my body yearn and ache with her. The darkness weighed in and around me. My eyes were on the cusp of tears. There is a lot of gambling involved in the early stages of womanhood. Gambling that inflicts sorrow and loneliness I do not know how to bare. I began to think of all the ways in which I belong to myself. It was a quiet dialogue at first, muffled and insecure. Then, I watched it all come together once again just as it had months ago. The answer lies in Sue Monk Kidd’s book titled Traveling with Pomegranates. The passage reads, “Every woman needs to become self-mothering… To learn to take care of herself, to love herself.” The words hung in front of me as if I was driving solely to reach them. I thought I learned this months ago. I thought I had found the mother inside of me. Feeling a little happier, I drove on. Mina and I. We sang our way to the driveway of my home. 

Self-mothering. It is a blanket I will always have to refold. It is scripture I will always reread. It is a taste I need to acquire.

7 Comments

  1. This guy sounds like a caring, passionate guy. I’m not sure where he went wrong at all. It really seems like you are completely overdramatizing the date. If this is how all girls think, I can’t imagine ever going on a date with a girl especially if she is as critical as you.

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    1. Hi Nick, thank you for your comment and thank you for taking the time to read this post. I didn’t intend for this post to come off so critical but I am glad you said something as I can now reread my writing with a renewed lens. Unfortunately, blogs don’t cover every aspect that goes into an experience like this one. There are other factors not mentioned that contribute to my “overdramatizing” attitude you mention. In addition, the point of the blog post is not to describe a bad date. The point resides in the quotation I inserted from Sue Monk Kidd’s book on how all women should learn the art of “self-mothering” (whatever this means for each woman individually). Hopefully I will be able to write a follow up blog post in the near future where I can elaborate on this experience. For now, thank you for reading. It truly means a lot to me:)

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  2. What’s interesting about this blog post is that you start off convincing the reader that this is the worst date known to mankind. It leaves the reader making predictions as to how awful this date is and what specific incident could have happened to make it so horrible? Did he say something racist? Make an offensive remark? Ditch you? Stand you up? What the reader quickly realizes is that there is not an incident that he does but rather a prude like judgment coming from you. Although you humiliate yourself by sticking your foot in your mouth about the black shoes, it is your own fault for feeling as though this date went down the hole. Perhaps this was the first male that didn’t give you a terrible reaction for an incompetent remark you made and you were just unsure how to handle it. Lucky for you your date never even called you out but thankfully you were smart enough to notice the flush in his cheeks. But of course in the world of wannabe amateur writers you find a way to make a simple incident, one night in your 20 something years of living, to be a turning point for the reason why you wanted to drive across the country.
    It’s also funny that you describe your idea of driving down to Miami with the directions and advice given to you by your father who you mention has not travelled much. Interesting. It’s similar to taking getting your car fixed by a plumber. Completely unrelated.
    What’s super cute is the part where you talk about your wine pairings. My prediction is that you have little to no knowledge about wine and what types of alcohol go well with what, but rather you like to partake in the basic “bachelor and wine nights” on a weekly basis making you feel as though you are some kind of adult because according to the government you are of age to purchase alcohol. So you simply revert back to the advice given by someone who is your elder has told you in passing.
    Although it is the 21st century it is evident you are part of the feminist movement in which you feel that a man shouldn’t pay for your meal because you are both equals. Considering you are most likely of college age, you probably are working a minimum wage job but to you that is some sort of an income so therefore you can “afford” to buy yourself a meal.
    The remainder of the post pays homage to a portion of a cheesy Nicholas Spark novel as well as an egotistical Danielle Steel piece. As a mimic of these writers, wonderful. As an original piece, so very pathetic to read. It is evident that you did not get an English or Communications degree in college but rather wanted to blog about your experiences which are fabricated and embellished for reading pleasure. It’s hard when you have a group of friends that are not present to listen to your every thought and opinion, so rather you share with the world hoping to seek approval from strangers on the internet. Perhaps you are looking for another man to tell you how they would take you on the date of your dreams. Or you’re looking for the fellow feminist to join your “girl gang” to tell you how amazing of a woman you are and you don’t need a man to complete you, and whatever else it is that Taylor Swift is preaching in her latest single. Whatever it is it seems that the validation you are seeking is slim to none.
    Perhaps my biggest advice is to work on your grammar and writing skills. Story telling can get you a long ways, when you do it correctly. Dating is not your strong suit but with practice and more of an open mind, you can get better at it and be more of a hot commodity.
    Best of luck in all your future endeavors.

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    1. 1. Thank you for taking the time to read and critique my work, despite the apparent hostile tone.
      2. Your assumptions are incorrect: I do not identify as a feminist and I AM working towards an English degree.
      3. As P. T. Barnum said, “There is no such thing as bad publicity.” And this honey, is the circus of blogging.

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      1. Dually noted. Good luck on achieving the English degree! It’ll come in handy when you end up applying to be a barista. I’m glad you are gifted in brains more than you are in looks.

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  3. Oh goodness go fuck yourself. Glad you don’t disagree how disgusting your looks are. And the fact the only job you’ll be able to get is as a barista. That’s if you’re lucky though. Take care sweetie!

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