In the not so distant past, I went on a date with a nice man.  I’m sure this isn’t lost on anyone, but my use of the phrase “nice man” sums up exactly the level of chemistry happening on my end of things.  But he wasn’t an overt asshole, so I stayed for the whole date. Then I went home and promptly forgot about him. Yes, I know the asshole was on the other foot (huh?!?).

Apparently, the nice man is (or was) an optimist.  Disregarding my complete disregard, he emailed me about a month later.  It was a very flattering email.  He extolled my charms, a lot, and was quite insistent that we try it again.  He was, truth be told, a bit forceful yet still managed to pull off a courtly vibe.  About half a second after reading the email I shot it off to one of my oldest friends from college.  She didn’t bother herself with emailing. She called immediately and also didn’t bother with any of the usual niceties.  This is what blared out of my phone:

“Oh my God!  Oh no!  Oh my God! You’ve got an email from a CRAZY man on your hands.  No! Not just a crazy man. He’s TED BUNDY crazy.  You’d better run, girl!  Run out to the outhouse!  You know how I know it’s Ted Bundy time? Because it’s crazy. But…here’s where he gets you……at first, that email seems sane. But when you really think about it, holy guacamole.  Sane, crazy, sane, crazy. Total psycho killer qu’est-ce que c’est.  It’s Ted time. That’s it in a nutshell.  No, a nut job.”

I swear I did not make this up.

The thing is, I thought the missive was rather sweet and just wanted to ask my pal if she thought I should give him a second try even though there hadn’t been any chemistry.  It didn’t occur to me that she’d put the kibosh on it by going straight to serial killer.  What did she see in that first nano-second of reading the email that I didn’t?  After I hung up on my concerned (if possibly alarmist) pal, I attempted to indulge in a little independent thought. Maybe I was right and he’s just a sweet and quirky guy who deserved another chance?

By the end of a night of rumination, it didn’t matter. Once someone you love and trust even brings up the idea of you possibly taking up residence in multiple garbage bags and 20/20 covering your untimely demise, the bloom is off the rose. Even if the person doling out advice also advocated that I “run out to the outhouse.”

I still don’t know what that meant.

There was no second date.

About Author

Lawyer, literary agent, book packager, film producer, writer, New Yorker. Likes long walks on the beach and little dogs. Hates mean people and when the pharmacy runs out of Klonopin.

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