The tables on the terrace of the Figaro Bistrot are too close to each other. A group of women are sitting next to us, drinking white wine, leaning together to whisper while glancing at me. My date gets up, excuses herself, and heads to the bathroom. One of them leans toward me: “So, is that your dad?”
I'm pretty sure I'll turn bright red and simply reply, “No.”
When he comes back, he places his hand on the thigh that sticks out from the opening in my dress. The women's eyes widen, they look at each other and giggle. I'm not sure I actually like it. There's a part of me that squirms in disgust at the whole situation, but I ignore it… and I ignore the giggles.
Until now, the conversation has revolved around a film he wrote. “I spent about ten years trying to get it chosen, but it ended up working out,” he says. His film won several awards and was highly acclaimed by critics. “Everything I’ve written since then I haven’t cared too much about.”
It shows. She hasn't written a single movie since her first one that hasn't been panned. But I still feel a certain pride that she wants me, this humble grad student; maybe this is what dating in Los Angeles really means.
Until then, most of the men I'd dated in Los Angeles (who were around my age) were starving artists, aspiring filmmakers and musicians who were working as valets and waiters in the meantime.
His dreams were always endearing, and money doesn't matter too much to me. I was never a part of his dreams. The men I dated before always told me I deserved better, that they weren't looking for anything serious (always after a few months of dating, and it always turned out that I wasn't the only one they were dating). I wasn't sure if I was looking for anything serious either, but what I really wanted was someone who would see me as a girlfriend (or maybe even a wife). There's nothing more important than being adorable, even if the basis for that is being young and decently attractive.
My date is about two years younger than my father (who didn’t have me at a particularly young age). However, he has Instagram and an iPhone and is a writer, which makes me feel like he’s not so different from me after all. He finally asks me about myself: “What is your research about?” Since I’m not an expert in anything, I never really know how to answer this question, so I rattle off a list of areas I’ve dabbled in. One of them is the coming-of-age novel.
“What is that?” he asks, his image of him crumbling a little.
It occurs to me that the real reason I removed the upper limit from my Hinge settings and agreed to this date is that I thought I might find someone like my old professor, whose class on the coming-of-age novel was my primary motivation for applying to graduate school. I was crazy about him; he had the exact same taste in music as me (think classic college radio male manipulator), he made stupid jokes, and he had a smile that made me melt. He was from Los Angeles, and I can’t deny that part of the motivation for me applying to USC was a subconscious desire to follow in his footsteps.
But that man, my date, was clearly not him.
Then he asks me if I want kids. “No,” I say firmly. But then I back off: “At least, not now.” I’m surprised to say this. Am I afraid that he won’t love me anymore if I don’t want kids, even though I’m realizing that I don’t want him?
“Women always say that. Why has every woman I’ve ever met said that to me?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m not in a position to support a child right now.”
“But I am.”
He smiles and the distaste grows. There's something sinister about his smile that makes me realize that maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all. But I find myself ignoring this.
“I guess we'll have to see.”
The afternoon turns into evening and we end up inside the restaurant, sharing the same side of a booth. At one point, he asks me to take a selfie. I agree.
Should I go on a date with this man? I'm not attracted to him and I don't find him interesting. But he seems like a man who really wants me, even if he doesn't really know who I am. The other reason I agreed to this date is my deathly fear of getting older and losing my attractiveness to men. I remember the first time I looked in the mirror at 21 and realized I was deteriorating.
Since then, I’ve religiously followed a retinol and sunscreen regimen, but I still noticed the bags under my eyes growing and growing. I asked on Reddit what I should do about it, and was recommended under-eye filler. I debate the pros and cons of this every day. It pains me to know that one day it will be too late. Since I’m a decently attractive but still somewhat average woman (r/Rateme ranked me a 6 or 7, and in LA, that means a 4 or 5), youth is mostly what I have going for me. And I know full well that men in LA are not interested in my pursuit of a PhD in comparative literature, which might even be intimidating.
The next day I apologize on Instagram. I never got her number. I tell her I had a great time, but I don't think we have enough in common.
“I think we have more in common than you think. I'll always be here if you change your mind.”
A few hours later, he sends me the selfie he took.
Next to her I look like her teenage daughter and, in a sickly way, that makes me happy.
The author, a PhD student in comparative literature at USC, lives in Studio City. She's on Instagram: @sarahgarrodwrites
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