Feeling human. Or that time I got fingered by my Uber driver
It’s pretty rare that I actually like a guy. Like like like him. And it’s been a minute since I’ve had butterflies. But as I text my friend a screenshot of my Hinge date’s profile, telling her that if I didn’t message by five I’d been murdered, I felt a rush of anticipation.
Apparently my type is an outdoorsy, vegan(ish) data scientist who surfs, runs, loves traveling, and appreciates good grammar. Because the date was good. It was so good.
Except for the part at the end where he high-fived me and said he’d had fun, but wasn’t sure if there was a romantic connection.
I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood, at which point during our socially-distanced paddleboard date would have been the ideal moment to forge a romantic connection?
Maybe it was the part when the planes flew overhead, and we were shouting small talk at each other across the water. Or was it when the boats passed by, and I was trying not to fall off the board in their wake.
My bad. I think that was it, that must have been where the romantic connection was supposed to go.
That’s it, next time I’m paddleboarding naked. That way there’s no room for misinterpretation.
I don’t know what my outward reaction looked like when he said that, but it must have given something away because a beat later he followed up with, “Just to clarify, that was a maybe on the romantic connection.”
I’m never dating a data scientist again.
***
Half of me got on an indignant high horse because I’m nobody’s maybe. And the other half appreciated the honesty. I’d never had so much bluntness after a first date, and I liked it. It felt intentional.
I let myself consider the possibility that maybe if I hadn’t knotted my shirt up like a Mariah Carey backup dancer, he might have taken me to be more intellectual. Which is probably what a data scientist is looking for, after all. I probably should have worn glasses.
My brother used to tell me not to laugh around a guy if I ever wanted to get married. And my ex once pointed out that my canine teeth were yellow. Maybe it was that.
Maybe if I hadn’t mentioned so many guy friends, or if I was vegan. Maybe if I read the New York Times more often. I should really get on that.
And then I remembered that I’m already enough. All of me. Even the part that can’t quite recall the punch line to the story I was telling about Boaty McBoatface. That’s enough too.
And if he doesn’t want all of it, then he doesn’t get any of it.
***
That evening I pulled my leggings up over my calves and sunk my feet into the hot tub in the common area of the housing complex. I picked away at the chipped stucco with my toe and thought about how I’d rolled my leggings up just a few hours earlier to clamber onto the paddleboard, and wasn’t life funny.
I had a hard phone call to make with someone I cared about very much. I’d been putting it off because I didn’t want to do it.
When I finally dialed I listened to him say that he wanted to be together, and that he didn’t know how I felt because I never told him.
And I didn’t want to say the words I knew I needed to say. The ones I knew would hurt him.
But I said them anyway, because sometimes the truth sucks balls.
My friend said he understood, and that he couldn’t be in my life right now because it hurt too much. I said I understood. Even though I didn’t know that was an option. I didn’t know that by not liking him, I was gonna lose him.
And I lay back on the cement and listened to the cars drive past, and watched the light pollution blot out the night sky. And was acutely aware of being human.
The last time I’d felt so human I was cycling on a busy road, listening to a podcast that mentioned body bags. There was something very fleshy about hearing that word as my clothes flapped from the rush of oncoming traffic.
***
I woke up the next day with a truth hangover.
The cobwebs cleared when I recalled a conversation I’d had with my Uber driver, about this time last year.
I’d been on a night out, and was heading home alone as my hookup buddy couldn’t be bothered coming downtown. I’d called an Uber to avoid going back to a friend’s house, where I knew there was a guy I wasn’t into, who wanted to hook up.
After he dropped me off home, I invited the Uber driver in for a drink, which turned into a late night heart-to-heart, which turned into a 3am beach trip, which turned into him waking me up after I’d drunkenly fallen asleep on a rock mid-pee.
Somewhere in that mix we decided to each confess something we’d never told anyone before.
Mine was that I felt like all the men in my life were interchangeable. Like it didn’t really make a difference who I went home with because at the end of the day, they were all kind of the same person.
His was that when he was a kid he used to think we were made of hot dogs. And that if you cut someone open, there would just be hot dog inside.
The morning sun came up as we drove home. He dropped me off and fingered me briefly as we kissed goodbye. Sure, he was nearing 50. But he was a hot 50.
***
Remembering that sentiment made me grateful for my current heartache. It made me grateful to mean something to someone, and to have someones who mean things to me.
Grateful that I have hearts to break, and care enough to have mine broken.
Grateful that we’re more than just hot dog on the inside.
Not Enough Middle Fingers is a weekly newsletter that comes out every Friday. Unless I’m in emotional turmoil, in which case Saturday is a very nice day to receive a newsletter indeed. Sign up here to inject that shit straight into your inbox.
