When your date wants to be you and/or your ex!

 

It's been a long day. I'm not really in the mood for a date: smiley face and small talk. But it is Friday night, and going out for a drink sure beats staying home with Netflix, or so I thought. Besides, this guy, Nikhil, seems nice - well as nice as one gets on a dating app, and we have some common "friends" on social media. Hope always floats for me, and Hope was lying back on a vast, sun-kissed blue ocean full of fish (and garbage) with sunglasses on, smiling her smug smile. Couldn’t tell if she was rolling her eyes.

I remember the first time I met Hope. I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a novice that she quickly netted with the dangling of a carrot I now call Dr Past. Years later, bright eyes dulled and docked tail, I am very skeptical with every appearance of this Hope creature. [And the night’s events will only serve to cement my rather healthy skepticism. But do read on.]

The music is not loud up on the terrace and the ambience is mellow. It is open to the night sky and breeze. Looking around, I see him, same face as in his profile, seated at a high table for two. (Ugh, I dislike high tables: dangling legs lead to pins and needles. -1 point.) "Hi!" I say as I approach. He is already standing and leans in for a polite hug.

"Hi," he smiles, "Is this table OK? They didn't have any lower ones available." Ah! He hadn't not been thinking. OK, we're back to love-all.

"Oh, OK, this is fine," I lie and clamber onto a stool, thankful I chose jeans over a dress. We place the drinks order and so begins the evening. I find a footrest and manage to secure my heels to avoid dangling legs. So far so good.

Usually, when two people who live in the same city meet, they try to identify common friends and connections. As it turns out, in our case a connection we have is a fairly prominent counselor, Abby D, who was in the news recently because of some actor who had some psychiatric issues. "Yeah, I saw her a couple of times, " I say, after we established that we both knew her, "but it didn't help me. I think she knew my ex too well for me to really connect or for her to be unbiased." 

"Oh, she's a wonderful person," says Nikhil, ignoring the remark about the ex ( -1 again). " In fact, I even met her at this conference I went to last year," and here he pauses and smiles at the memory. Then he softly chuckles to himself.

"What's funny?" I ask, curious as always.

Nikhil smiles and looks at me. "Do I remind you of anyone? People at the conference mistook me for someone else."

I study him. He's tall, athletic, bald, wears glasses, and is clean shaven. He's a personal/professional leadership/lifestyle coach or some such thing. "Robin Sharma?" I ask. 

His eyebrows shot up. "Not quite, but you're on the right track."

Oh, dear lord, not him, I think to myself. Aloud I say, "No clue. Who?"

"There's this therapist who works closely with Abby D, you know..." and he raises an eyebrow at me. I pretend to not know... or rather I hope I don't know. And he continues, "Dr. Salim Khurshid?"  And that's another minus 1, no parentheses.

Huh, I thought. There really is no escaping my Dr Past. "Oh, OK," I say. "Yeah I see the resemblance." Kind of. As much as I didn’t like to think of the ex, as I recall his was a handsome face. Now, I am annoyed that this Nikhil thinks he is as handsome as my Dr Past (another -1) and then I am confused, because why should that annoy me or that he was mistaken for said Dr Past? (-1 for me.) I feel miffed, but smug in the knowledge that I have an Ace up my sleeve if he keeps going down this road, which he does.

He smirks, happy in this affirmation. "You know who he is right? He's pretty well known in our circles and has done some great work for people with all kinds of issues. And it was so funny at the conference because all these people kept asking me to sign their copies of his book!” I remembered that book, something to do with relationships and love. And I remember how ironic I thought it was that our own relationship fell to dust while he was busy salvaging others.

"Yeah, I know him," I say.

"I knew you’d know him! Do I look like him?” another smirk. I smiled a grimace. He pauses in his effusive admiration of Dr Past. “Wait, you know him? Or you know of him?"

I look him straight in the eye and play my Ace, "I know him. I was married to him." (+10 me.) He nearly fell off his stool. "I did say that was why I couldn't continue seeing Abby," I offer by way of explanation. The confused gaze turns into one of star struck awe. 

"You were married to Salim Khurshid?" He rubs his head in disbelief, staring at me. Clearly you wish you were, I wanted to say, but I just nod.  “What’s he like? Isn't he a good man? How come it ended?” came a barrage of questions (I stop keeping score). My eyes are rolling so far back in my head I think I'll go blind. My drink was done, I had swallowed it down and want another, but I won't enjoy it with this conversation.

I clear my throat, look into his very awestruck gaze, and politely ask, “Would you like his number?” hoping the sarcasm would have the desired effect of getting him to shut up. As he looks at me nonplussed (he wants to say YES but he knows he must say NO), I make up my mind to turn this leaf too. The past should stay past, as should this evening. I stand-slide up, and tell him I must meet friends, and make it as far as the door. So glad it's a jeans night (+10 again, me!).

“You will find love again!” He calls after me, quoting from that book (-200 to Nikhil,  wannabe Mrs. & Dr. Khurshid). I want to snatch Hope’s glasses off her smug face and stomp on them.

“You look nothing like him!” I turn around and call back before I let the door slam shut behind me.