Several years ago, during the lengthy dating dry spell that
I call “my 20s,” I had a side (unpaid) gig writing blog posts for a movie
website that was started by a woman my age named Rushmore. She was basically
every average-looking woman’s nightmare: naturally petite, blonde, and thin,
smart, funny, personable, legitimately enjoyed and understood sports,
and--worst of all--genuinely nice, and therefore impossible to hate.
This was one of the years that I decided to make a New
Year’s resolution, and that year I resolved to be more willing to put myself
“out there” and meet new people. So during a brief email exchange with Rushmore
about her site, while she was spending a year backpacking through South America
with her then-fiancée, I mentioned my resolution in case she knew of anyone I
could possibly tolerate spending an evening with.
“I actually do know someone you might like. And he does
entertainment writing, too, so, if nothing else, you guys could talk about
that.”
She said she would do an email introduction to her friend
Max and suggest that he and I meet up, but framing it as a networking meeting
since, “I’m not sure how he’ll feel about potentially being set up.”
Within seconds of her sending that email, Max replied with
an exuberant response that declared, “Great idea, Rushmore!” and “I would love
to meet your friend!” and “Wolfie, wouldn’t you agree that Rushmore is just the
best?!” (actual language used, not an exaggeration)
He suggested we meet for coffee after work on Thursday, and
I agreed. Figuring if we didn’t hit it off on a personal level, my pseudo-date
with Max could at least prove beneficial professionally, since I was always on
the lookout for a new full-time job or freelance work that would actually pay
me. I made photocopies of my of the business cards I had collected from editors
and publishers who either declined to hire me or offered me work where “if our
traffic numbers are high enough we can pay you something,” since maybe Max
would have better luck with these contacts than I had. And then feel compelled
to share his network of contacts with me.
Arriving at Starbucks, I spotted Max easily from a Facebook
photo I had looked up earlier. He greeted me enthusiastically with that sort of
frenetic energy that some people innately have that always throws me off, being
a naturally sedate sort of person. He offered to get me my drink of choice
while I unbundled myself at the table, absent-mindedly bouncing on the balls of
his feet while waiting in line, making me wonder if he was overly nervous,
excited, or already too caffeinated.
As soon as he got back to the table he asked how I knew
Rushmore. I started to explain but as soon as the words, “…write for her
website…” were out of my mouth he was off and running.
“Oh, her movie website? I love that site! Isn’t it so well
put together? She’s not even a web person by trade, but she still manages to
pull that off. It’s amazing. I met her at a blogger’s networking event; it was
kind of lame, but there was an open bar, and of course I got to meet Rushmore,
so I was so glad I wound up going. She was working on another website at the
time…I forget what it was about. I thought she was absolutely gorgeous, so of
course I was devastated when I found out she was engaged. But she’s still
awesome, and so smart and talented, so I’ve made sure to keep in touch.
Besides, you never know where life is going to take you…engaged ain’t married,
after all…”
A 7-foot-tall drag queen with a pink bouffant wig standing
behind him holding up a neon sign declaring, “He’s in love with Rushmore,
dummy!” would have been more subtle.
Having accepted that this spastic ball of unrequited love
was not my soul mate, I tried to steer the conversation toward making some
business connections. I offered him the photocopies of my contacts, which he
excitedly accepted, promising to email me some of his as soon as he got home; that
was over eight years ago and I don’t even live in that city anymore, but I’m
sure those will be in my inbox any day now. We also become Facebook friends,
but I never heard anything from him, and I never reached out, either, assuming
that not being able to provide a direct route to Rushmore’s heart rendered me
totally useless to Max.
Almost a full year later Rushmore was back in town, now
sans-fiancée. She was throwing herself a party to jointly celebrate her
birthday, the dissolving of a toxic relationship, and being back home. I
received an invite, despite my only connection to her still being a writer for
her site. Unable to come up with one of my many excuses for avoiding social
situations, I went to the bar where she was reveling with her new roommate, a
collection of girlfriends, and Max.
If Max was there as a guest or as her personal manservant,
I’m still not sure. All night long she never saw the bottom her glass without
him appearing at her side with a full one, never went to the ladies’ room
without him offering to watch her bag, and never tried to sit down without him
leaping up to offer her a more comfortable seat.
When I arrived she did a quick round of introductions to her
lady friends, and Max stood to introduce himself, offering me his hand.
“Uh…yeah, I know, hi Max. We already met. About a year ago,
remember? Rushmore emailed us and suggested we meet? You bought me a peppermint
hot chocolate? I gave you pages of editorial contacts…”
A faint light of recollection rolled over his face and he
proceeded to make awkward small talk with me while absent-mindedly gazing over
my shoulder.
“Oh, right, I thought you looked familiar… So how’s it
going? Did any of the contacts I sent you help out?” (no, primarily because
that exchange never occurred) “Can you believe Rushmore’s back? And now
single?! I mean, you may hope for things like that to happen, but how often do
they actually happen? Oh, excuse me, I need to go get her another drink…”
For the next few months his Facebook status updates were a
series of cryptically blatant lovelorn messages and quotes like, “People always
say that things happen for a reason…now I know why…” and “You have found her,
now go and get her.”
In an email chain with Rushmore about some site-related
business, I asked her how things were going now that she was back. She replied
that it was a bit strange being back and being single again, but that she was
pretty happy.
“But Max won’t leave me alone, which is annoying, but that’s
a whole ‘nother story.”
Unable to censor myself even in casual emails with casual
acquaintances, and having zero tolerance for anything I deem “adolescent behavior”
(which can encompass anything from tattling to being too obtuse to acknowledge
when someone’s clearly infatuated with you) I rolled my eyes and typed back, “Are
you not aware that he’s in love with you? I assumed it was one of those things
that everyone knows, but no one talks about.”
She never responded to that part of my message, but words
must have been exchanged with Max because a few weeks later he un-friended me
on Facebook and I never heard anything from him again.
Rushmore and I are still distantly friendly, despite her movie site now being
defunct, and she’s happily ensconced in a long-term relationship with a man who
is not Max.
And I’m still waiting on those business contacts.
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