Mutton Chops
I walked into Novare Res already two beers deep, having met my friend at a brewery for a pep talk, and saw my date waiting for me at a table by the door. I recognized him by his mutton chops. He stood halfway out of the bench seat, struggling to reach his full height, sandwiched as he was between the table and the wall.
“So nice to finally meet you!” I chirped in a voice at least two octaves higher than my usual register while shrugging off my puffer coat, faded and salty from the January snow. I’d added finally because we’d first matched on a dating app a month prior, then he went on vacation to Norway for a week, then I got depressed about dating apps for two-ish weeks, then the sun came out one random Tuesday and I re-downloaded the dating app and gave him my number.
“Yeah, you too,” Mutton Chops said from behind the mutton chops. If I’m being honest, I was hoping I wouldn’t see the mutton chops that night. He had them in only about half of his profile pictures and was clean-shaven in the rest, so it could have gone either way. I have sensitive skin, so too much beard friction against my face can cause irritation. Mutton chops are not conducive to a pleasant make-out session. But he probably didn’t know if I’d have long or short hair, since half my pictures are recent (short) and the rest were from the last time I was on the apps, about two years ago (long).
This was the first date of my new dating era. I was fresh off a breakup and, before that, a failed move halfway across the country where the dating pool was no less disheartening, but at least I didn’t have to worry about matching with anyone I went to high school with.
I’d texted Mutton Chops a little, but nothing to get the heart pumping, so I didn’t know much about him beyond what was available on his profile: he’s a 27-year-old firefighter who enjoys travel and outdoor activities. So, the average dating profile of a man from Southern Maine. The fact we’d matched warranted a meeting, though, because my profile is basically the opposite of his: “29-year-old city kid who enjoys day drinking and reading.”
“I love your sweater!” I told Mutton Chops after we’d ordered our beers, because I couldn’t think of anything else to break the ice. My therapist had challenged me to “resist the urge to fill every silence” and “let my dates speak,” but this guy seemed shy, so I wanted to give him an in.
“Oh, thanks!” he said, looking down at his L.L.Bean catalog sweater while he took a sip of beer. The foam settled on his facial hair in such a way that I wondered if I should let him know, but decided against it, assuming men who grew mutton chops did so knowing they might have to wear their food and drink.
“I like yours too!” he kindly added, though the sweater I was wearing was decidedly ordinary.
I have three rules for first dates:
- Drinks only. No daytime coffee dates, no dinner. Drink dates happen in the evening, so there’s at least an air of romance even if the date itself isn’t romantic. They can be brief if you hate the person and want to run away, or you can order another round if you’re pleasantly surprised.
- Dress down a little. You want to look nice but also cultivate an air of mystery, to appear as if you just rushed here from work or something, like this is just another average Friday night for you.
- No physical contact beyond a friendly, chaste hug.
Stick with me long enough and you’ll see me break them all.
Mutton Chops was interested to hear about my writing, which is a bridge I must cross on every first date. Writing is one of those professions that still elicits condescension from most people, but I’ve learned from experience that I am not allowed to feel condescended to, even when they say things like “How fun!” and “I love writing too. I journal every night.” Mutton Chops, at least, was an English major, had previously worked in a bookstore, and knew who bell hooks was when we saw the bouncer reading All About Love. “Fuck yeah! I love bell hooks!” were his exact words.
So why, when he texted me the next day saying he’d had a great time and suggested a second date, did I simply respond, “Lovely meeting you, too!” and never speak to him again? Maybe it was the mutton chops. Maybe it was the fact he described himself as an “extreme introvert.” Maybe it was because, when we left the bar, he put on a little cap that made him look like a train conductor. I can’t definitively say.
All I know for sure is it’s a numbers game. Most of the time, you have to put your catch back in the water and wait for the next one to bite.
Emma Chance’s new column appears here bimonthly. Artwork by Caite McNeil (@quantumcartwheel).