Illustration by the multi-talented Mr. Fernando Diaz of Wolves - listen to them HERE!
Sometime in the
middle of the endless Winter of 2013, my hubby-in-law called me, sounding way
more excited than usual.
“I found the
perfect guy for you, and he is sitting right in front of me,” he proudly
announced.
Knowing all too well
that the guy in mention was probably listening to me on speaker, I didn't
attempt to obtain any supplementary information. Instead, I agreed to meet my
potential soul mate for a drink later that week, knowing nothing but his first
name (Jewish, rhymes with Theo) and age (25 - not ideal, but tolerable to my 26).
In a completely atypical move, I didn't even attempt any basic Facebook
stalking, deciding to let fate take its course.
As it usually is
with setups, I felt a certain degree of pressure to make a decent first impression,
if only out of courtesy to my HIL, who was already stepping way beyond his
comfort zone by saying positive things about me. I also figured that, in case
Jewish Theo didn't work out, a glowing review would yield more future set-up
opportunities. Rushing home from school, I spent an excessive amount of time selecting an outfit that would effectively portray the skinniest, most polished version of myself, finally settling on some sort of skinny jean and Helmut Lang blazer combination. (Being an incredibly boring dresser, I like to think of myself as emulating Emanuelle Alt.)
It's like the Paris Vogue masthead had a baby and out came my outfit. In a healthy size 27,
that is.
I was instructed
to meet Jewish Theo at Beef Club in the Etienne Marcel area of Paris, a yuppie-populated
neighborhood that I like to snobbishly equate to Murray Hill. Beef Club is one
of those connoisseur joints that makes a selling point out of informing you about the grass-driven diet of the cow you
are about to eat. (A far cry from the majority from Parisian brasseries, which haven’t
changed their menu in forty years and would do scary things to anyone who dare
question the origin of their entree.)
Upon my arrival, I
was greeted by a tall, handsome guy who looked like he could play Adrien
Brody`s cuter, younger brother in a WWII biopic. The only off-putting thing
about him was the awkward white linen scarf wrapped around his neck, looking
completely out of place next to an otherwise decent outfit. (Parisian men seem
to have a bizarre girly scarf fetish that I fail to understand – during my morning
commute, it looks as though half of the train accessorized from their wife’s
closets, while the other half woke tied to the bedpost by some hippie stripper.)
Ignoring the
offensive scarf, I focused my attention to Jewish Theo, who was suddenly
leading me to a cavernous space underneath the restaurant. I realized that I
had been invited to arrive precisely at the time when normal people finish
dinner and descend to Le Ballroom du Beef Club, situated downstairs. While I
wasn't all that enthusiastic about the idea of sipping cocktails in artificially
intimate lighting, I really couldn't blame JT for avoiding a full dinner with a
girl he had only seen in an iPhone photo album (I’m positive there’s a Bro Code
requiring men to show pictures of prospective set-ups for pre-approval.)
We settled down at
a ‘cozy’ table in the corner of the cave and began exchanging basic
biographical data. Like me, JT had spent some of his childhood in New York (check).
Unlike me, he had pursued a real profession, obtaining a law degree at the ripe
age of twenty four (Completely plausible in France, where law is an undergraduate
major. And, double check.) Instead of putting said degree to use, he had instead
decided to follow his true passion, film making, at which he was already relatively
successful. Overall, he was interesting and certainly far from stupid, which
makes what happened thereafter even more disturbing.
Twenty minutes
into our conversation, JT interrupted one of my expat anecdotes with a very
exaggerated compliment on my looks. A bit rushed, but flattering nonetheless. When
he paraphrased this again three times in the course of the next ten minutes, I decided
that perhaps he just doesn't like to listen to me speak. (Many people wouldn't
blame him.) I reverted the attention back to him, inspiring him to concentrate
for fifteen consecutive minutes to tell me about some passion project documentary he was
working on. As I nodded and made all the right facial expressions (combination
of fascinated, concerned, and very, very impressed) he suddenly announced, in
all seriousness, what a miracle it was to have met me. It appeared that, in all of his twenty five years, nobody had understood him as well as I did. Following this
declaration, he got up, crossed over to the couch where I was sitting, and
began giving me a very sensual back massage.
“When I find
something I like, I never let it go,” he whispered in my ear, as he rubbed his
long skinny fingers into my neck muscles in ways that were clearly meant to
allude to his other hidden talents.
If it wasn't for
the hubby-in-law connection, I would have been out of there in a flash. However, I
couldn't run out and risk the chance of disqualifying myself from all future
matchmaking opportunities. Instead, I delivered some rigid American spiel about
‘moving too fast’, which inspired my offender to eventually back off and return to
his seat. In twenty minutes, JT had gone from being the cute film producer
in the bad scarf to being the creepy Frenchman who may use said scarf for
things far scarier than basic bondage.
He made one final
attempt to express-rush the night by asked me to go back to his place for some
more amazing small talk. With all the magic he felt, it was unimaginable that
we would have to part so quickly. Unless you count the occasional adrenaline rushes of terror that I was experiencing, I did not feel much magic, and so I
politely declined. In one final act of crazy, he then asked if I would like to accompany him to the Opera that following Monday. I agreed to discuss it over the weekend, temporarily thrown off track demented illusion of scenarios like this:
Because that was clearly going to happen.
The weekend came
and went without as much as a word from the man who had claimed that we were
two parts of one soul. Not only did I not make it to the Opera on Monday, I
actually never heard from Jewish Theo guy again.
While I was never
really affected by said events, I worry for the younger and impressionable
girls who may actually fall for this crap and allow Daddy Longfingers to convince them that their love needs to be cemented overnight.
Consider this a warning, kids.
Bisous and BON WEEK-END! D-Magnetico and I are off to Anwerp to explore concept stores and the geo-locator function of Tinder.
MK
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