Blood Sugar(30)

By the middle of our third date I was feeling a little frantic. Jason still didn’t know how old I was. Or where I went to college. Or that I broke my wrist roller-skating on a basketball court with Ellie when I was ten. He didn’t know anything about me, and yet he was more tuned in to me than any guy I had ever been with before. He was like an alien, highly emotionally developed, educated about the human race and condition, but not able to play the role of human casually.

We went bowling, something I am convinced is a thing one only does on third dates and then never does again. The entire concept of a bowling alley lends itself to being an enterprise for new couples who want to seem adventurous and spirited, since dinners at nice restaurants only go so far. And bowling is a fun, active endeavor that doesn’t require one to be too athletically skilled yet allows for asses to be checked out, stamina to be assessed, and close access to be granted when teaching each other good form and technique. There’s also always a bar, so alcohol can be blamed for the terrible rolls. And alcohol can be credited for the ease of flirtation. I think bowling alleys have survived the test of time because of third dates alone, and the ubiquitous lame last-minute birthday party.

Not surprisingly they didn’t serve Champagne, or any sparkling wine option, at the bowling alley. So I was drinking vodka and soda, which was mostly vodka. I was drunk, really drunk, and my thoughts and fears boiled to the surface. Maybe Jason thought I was crazy? I did wear a sweatshirt to a first date, barely a dress on our second, and now was back in my conservative work clothes. Maybe he thought I was bipolar since visually I was giving off such disparate signals? But if he thought I was insane, why go out with me a third time? That would make him insane! And I was a professional psychologist, so wouldn’t I be able to tell if he was insane? Or maybe he was normal but had had a string of unhinged girlfriends and that was why he was taking it slow? And why was I in such a hurry anyway? This ruminating was not like me. I barely gave a second thought to murdering people, and here I was overthinking Jason’s every mannerism. I enjoyed analyzing human behavior, sure, but obsessing about dating, no way. Not me.

After another disastrous attempt at hitting the pins, I drunkenly turned to Jason. I shrieked out, “You don’t even know how old I am!”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

“Why?”

Hmmmmm. That was a good question. Why did it matter? When I was fifteen, I believed age was just a number, and I told Carlos so because I wanted to seem older. But at the same time I enjoyed people’s shock when they learned how young I actually was: “You’re so mature, and what an advanced vocabulary!” But now that I was twenty-five, my age not impressive one way or the other, it seemed like more than just a number. It seemed like the code to a safe that needed to be unlocked.

I answered Jason, “Well, what if I was forty? And you wanted kids. And I was too old to have them?”

Why was I talking about kids on a third date? What was wrong with me!? If he didn’t think I was crazy before, he definitely would now. I blamed the vodka but knew somewhere under the drunkenness I was falling in love with this guy. Maybe that scared me and I was trying to sabotage what could be a wonderful relationship. Or maybe I wasn’t trying to sabotage it at all, but came across as grasping and neurotic because I was scared the love of my life was slipping away.

Jason looked me over. “Are you forty?”

This question was an outrageous affront. So I yelled, getting the attention of the third-date couples on either side of our lane. “No, I’m not forty!”

“Well then, we don’t have to worry about your fertility, do we?”

I plopped down on a hard plastic turquoise-and-yellow swiveling bowling alley seat. And pouted.

Jason asked, “Do you want to tell me how old you are?”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Okay. I’m twenty-eight.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Jason took his turn, hitting a strike. He gave a congratulatory hoot, but the vibe of our date was now tense. My franticness was turning into resentment. A pressure behind my eyes. I didn’t know where I stood with him, and it wasn’t like a fun cat-and-mouse game. It was frustrating, especially since I cared so much about him so quickly. I knew he felt something for me too, but I couldn’t quite capture it.

Jason won the game by a ton of points, or pins, or whatever. And he thought I was too drunk to drive. I agreed. He lived close by, walking distance, and suggested I sober up at his apartment. Now we were getting somewhere, I thought. But when we arrived, he put a giant glass of water in my hand. He really did want me to sober up—this was not some ploy to get me back to his place and in bed. Jason had a two-bedroom, two-bathroom condo. He bought it three years ago, he said, only giving me this information because I asked direct questions about the building. He didn’t need so much space, but resale value on two-bedrooms was much higher than on one-bedrooms, so he went for the more promising investment. He was a real grown-up.

I sat on his couch, black leather, very masculine, and looked around. He was messy but not a slob. He had some framed concert posters, some cheesy art of waves, lots of camera equipment in black boxes that I would learn were called Pelican cases, and some meditation pillows in the corner. I could see a few beach towels lying around, and sand near his pile of shoes, which he seemed to kick off his feet right at his front door.