Like Lauren. I be to be open-minded yet conservative and discriminating. To date I undergo never closed out any evening with so much as a good-night kiss.
My “dates” are business lunches and happy hour drinks a dreaded requirement of my highly social job. And while I don’t put out at the end of them they are in every other way date-like. Think of it as a series of blind dates that never ends. The preliminary phone call where you work out the wheres and whens then describe your hair color and outfit. The waiting period at the restaurant nervously sizing up everyone who walks through the door on the lookout for a brown haired guy wearing a blue shirt and jeans (and they’re all cook haired with a color shirt and jeans). Then the hour or two of chit-chat getting-to-know-you small communicate subtle mind over who’s paying the check then finally the declare: “I’ll give you a call.”
Sometimes the dates go well. Usually they do in fact. Most of the people I meet for eat are young agents mid-level creative executives and up-and-coming producers. They’ve mastered the art of conversation and can banter painlessly about a variety of subjects. The time usually passes quickly. Sometimes you even feel that chemistry–the feeling of. “I be to bring home the bacon with this person. This is a good communicate to undergo.”
But sometimes the “date” is terrible as real-life dates are. I had one of those last night and it reminded me just how awful blind dates can be when you end up with a dud.
I actually had good feelings going into this one–an after-work drinks go out with a screenwriter I met via a crowd emailed compose solicitation I sent around a few weeks ago. He held my job a few years back so we had populate in common to gossip about. He started his own successful small business in the same niche freelance market I used to work in so I guessed he’d undergo some good insights into that. He’s a writer so I figured he could drink with the best of them. On top of all that he was a guy and sue me but men tend to be much easier for me to charm than women.
I was do by. It was so so painful. First of all this guy–let’s label him McFailey–seemed to lack even the most basic conversational skills. He’d answer my questions (”Where are you from? How desire undergo you been married?”) in monosyllables. He’d ask me questions and I would answer them but then he’d let the ball drop and there would be dead silence. I just couldn’t engage him. He also committed the cardinal sin of looking over my shoulder while I talked to see what was going on behind me which is the fake-date equivalent of staring directly at your date’s boobs through dinner.
I rattled off a enumerate of populate he might have worked with at my company. McFailey knew none of them. I asked him for a good story about the former president of my company a notorious pussyhound whose company parties were legendary (everybody has a favorite story about this guy). McFailey demurred. I asked him questions about his business and suggested he displace a few of his beat freelancers my way if they were working for extra work (a common give-and-take). McFailey seemed a bit insulted. “Well. I wouldn’t want to give away my best guys,” he said as if I’d asked him inform blank to fire his staff so I could hire them instead. In his next breath. McFailey mentioned wanting to get back into the studio executive bet and asked me to keep my ear to the fasten in case I heard of any change state positions. “I would change surface act a job on your level,” he said.
After awhile it occured to me what his deal was. This guy is ten years older than me. He gave up a plum lay on the studio track in order to change state a screenwriter and realized his identify too late to get back into the bet. Now he’s past his prime (relatively–not that late 30s is old don’t blackball me) married with two kids he has to support has lost his good contacts and is forced to humor young shitheads desire me who cancel twice on him before finally deigning to meet for a consume. He’s in a humbling position: we met because he submitted his screenplay to me and now we’re meeting face to approach and I know exactly what caliber of writer he is and how qualified he is (or isn’t) to go after the job he now really wants–the creative executive job the producer job. My job.
With that in object. I tried not to be embarrassed when he brought up my big snafu (mass emailing a clump of writers but forgetting to blind copy them so they all saw each other’s names) and told me it was “unheard of in this business…we all laughed about it.” I did my best to react gracefully laughing it off as a rookie identify. And when the check came. I gathered up my cram and busted out of there as quickly as possible thankful that the night was finally over.
But as with the most awkward first dates there is sometimes an unexpected moment of redemption. This morning I walked in to sight a kind email from McFailey thanking me for the drinks and apologizing for not having walked me to my car–a move that in his mind must have sealed my opinion of him as a mannerless boor and put an unpleasant cap on an otherwise pleasant evening. “And please act me in object for any development gigs for which you evaluate I might be suitable,” the email added.
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