My first date with My Beautiful Human

It’s been took long since I’ve written anything. No blog posts. No poetry. Not much of anything about anything. I’ve tried, erased, tried, erased, The Editor has lamented softly — scratch that — The Editor has ridden my ass asking what the hell is going on, knowing full well it’s simply life. He helped create my current situation.

Situation. Is that what I’m calling it? Status. So many names. Titles. 

I’ve met a man. Not through my yearly forays into online dating which, while entertaining, weren’t fruitful. I met him through a mutual friend: The Editor. He and his friend connected in childhood, drifted apart through adulthood and reconnected again via the magic of Internet. 

The Editor's friend is a man on a journey of self-love and healing. A man committed to growth, spirituality and learning, while grounded in humour and everyday, down-to-earth logic. The man — the Beautiful Human Being (BHB) — has a bit of a hippy-dippy streak, as does your girl here. And both the BHB and I were, at the same time, filling the ears of The Editor with our excitement over the Year of the Firehorse. The Editor could only feign interest for so long until he suggested connecting the two of us. 

We agreed to connect — the three of us — through an online conversation to get to learn about each other. 

The conversations went well. Everyone was fairly well-behaved, curious and open. Until the day the BHB sent a reel with profanity and humour. That broke the gates open and the mode of decorum evaporated into reality. An exhale. It was the start of the beginning.

I admit to liking the conversations we were having. Drawn to a man with wit and intelligence, compassion and kindness. Grit and guts. A blue-collar man interested in energy and shamanic healing, grounded in the roots of everyday living. 

I was also drawn to the pictures of him I saw. Ridiculously handsome. Dimples that captivate. A smile that encourages smiles. Eyes that speak as much as lips. In fact, truth be told, I told The Editor he was way out of my league. I hoped we could still be friends if we ever met but the combination of physical and mental attractiveness was beyond me. The Editor, being one of my closest friends, told me I was being ridiculous. I was. 

After a month of chatting online, I suggested meeting for a coffee. The BHB agreed. He proposed three meeting options for dinner and a drink. I chose one I’d never been to before. He assured me it was quiet and intimate, and we could have a conversation there.

We refused to call it a date. We were simply meeting. Calling it a date was scary, even at our age. Widowhood for me; a broken marriage for him. Who wants to date? Dating can possibly lead to feelings and all kinds of other complications for which neither of us have time. Work, friends, family, events, experiences … where would dating even fit in? 

I’ve worked way too hard to curate an amazing life these past few years, one that I refuse to rock the boat on, compromise on, because I truly love my life. 

So we agreed to meet. 

The night in late February came. Me, being me, stress baked. And then just stressed. Even though it wasn’t a date, I still wanted to look good, for him and mostly for me. Confidence is a beautiful thing. I stressed about what I was wearing and said so in the group chat. His reply? “Stuff it — you’ll look great." And I did. 

We met, hugged and I handed him a large bag containing cookies, cranberry bliss bars, minestrone soup. I was really stressed! He put it in his truck, amused, bewildered and grateful. 

We met at 7 p.m. and closed the restaurant down at 11 p.m. Four hours of conversation that flowed steadily, magically, easily. I, the self-professed flirting failure, flirted intentionally. He flirted back. 

This first date — yes, we now officially call it a date — was a goulash of emotions for me. Excitement at meeting a man I genuinely like. Nerves at the whole dating thing. I’ve only had one attempt and it failed epically. A twinge of “what would My Favourite Husband think of me dating?” I did my best to not overthink in the moment and simply enjoy and be present. And I was. 

The evening ended with him walking me partway to my car (I told him I was fine the rest of the way). A warm, embracing hug. No kiss. No promise of a next meeting. 

I wasn’t sure how I felt about the ending simply because I didn’t want the night to end. 

Was it the end? One enjoyable night or was it something more? More importantly, could I enjoy it for what it was and leave it be either way? 

If anything, it was another step forward in saying “yes” to new adventures, opportunities and experiences. I said “yes” to a date. “Yes” to me.

(Editor's note: Your writer and her BHB also decided not to update me after the date, or in the first several hours of the following day. To torture The Editor. The torture worked. Your writer forgot to mention that part.)