S.O.S.
Given that hordes of thirty-somethings have moved to the Portland area in recent years, one might assume the dating pool has deepened. This is only a little bit true. There are a few fresh faces on the dating apps, but most of the newcomers are already married, many with children. This means the population of eligible singles is still mostly composed of the unlucky few who grew up here and didn’t marry their high school or college sweetheart.
Still, for the brave singles who moved here all by their lonesome and aren’t cursed with memories of what every other guy hanging out at Aprés on a Saturday looked like when he was 16, options abound. I’m thinking of singles like my friend Wanda.
Wanda is a 30-year-old retail worker and photographer. She’s lived through two Maine winters now, so she’s one of us, and she’s worked in the Old Port long enough to know the good date spots.
“I went to high school with him,” I told Wanda when she showed me her date’s profile.
“No, don’t tell me that!” Wanda replied, because she could tell by my tone that I didn’t mean, We hung out in high school, but rather, We existed in the same building for four years.
When she told me he suggested Bayside Bowl for their first date, I assumed, as I’m sure you just did, that they’d be bowling. I like activity dates, but not for first dates. Activities are for the second or third date, not the first, which is when you should simply sit together drinking cocktails and nibbling bar snacks and asking get-to-know-you questions. Were they to do that on Bayside Bowl’s rooftop deck, great. But this was in March.
I had a date scheduled the same night, so Wanda and I planned to meet up when we were done to debrief. She was meeting him at six, so I was expecting her to text me around eight-thirty or nine, figuring they’d have to wait for a lane on a Friday night.
She texted me at seven-fifteen to tell me she was headed to Lambs, across the harbor in South Portland, our favorite meet-up spot. Ten minutes later she texted again: “Posted up at the bar LOL.” I left my second-date-appropriate location, the Congress Square restaurant Friends & Family, early to rescue her. I know an S.O.S. text when I see one.
The last time I sent a date S.O.S. was when I was living in Pittsburgh. I’d moved there after grad school hoping for a change of pace so dramatic that it would inspire me to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. Then I got there and completed the wherever you go, there you are rite of passage, eventually returning to Portland with my tail tucked between my legs.
In Pittsburgh, I was the Wanda, the fresh face who didn’t know any of the single guys from high school or college and wasn’t friends with any of their exes. I wielded that power irresponsibly, and that yielded mixed results. Mostly I went on a lot of bad first dates. One of those inspired my cardinal rule: no coffee dates.
When I matched with the tall, blond stranger, I agreed to get coffee at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday because I was unemployed and thus had nothing better to do at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday. Also, the coffee shop was just down the street from my apartment. I got there first so I could pick a good place to sit: a big leather couch by the door. With my iced latte and a novel — brought so I’d have something to do later, but also so I would look interesting and intelligent — I waited.
When he walked in, he looked shorter than he’d claimed to be on his profile (they usually are) and was wearing cargo shorts weighed down by whatever he was carrying in their various pockets. He waved a greeting, retrieved his wallet from the pocket under his left knee, procured a green tea from the counter and sat down next to me.
Not at the other end of the couch. Not on one of the armchairs next to the couch. Next to me. Like, same cushion.
I’d barely uttered, “Hello, how are you?” before fishing my phone from my purse — which was, mercifully, still wrapped around my body — and calling my roommate twice, immediately ending both calls, the universal code for “PLEASE CHECK MY LOCATION AND COME GET ME.”
Wanda was not as unlucky as I’d been; it was just a bad first date. They did not bowl, just shared one beer each by the bar, sitting at a sticky high-top table, watching toddlers use the gutter bumpers and pick at their chicken tenders.
We commiserated over our wine and bread at Lambs, debated whether we should leave our numbers for the bartender (don’t worry, we didn’t), and toasted to all the other fish in the sea.
Well, pond.
Emma Chance also writes The Overshare at emmachance.substack.com.
