Mr. Not Even Close

As some of you may recall, in a recent speed dating misadventure, I had the misfortune of having eight “dates” with eight ineligible bachelors.  And in an effort to recoup at least some of the fifteen euros that I wasted on that speed dating fiasco, I decided to say “yes” to Matthieu, the least offensive one of the lot — in the hopes that I’d at least get a date for my trouble.

Well, of course I’d get a date with Matthieu.  I had worn lip gloss.  I was a brilliant conversationalist.  I was, in a word, fabulous.

So it came as no surprise that our speed dating “interest” was “mutual,” and the online system sent me his contact information.  And it also came as no surprise to me that I didn’t need to use it, as he sent me an email straightaway to ask me out to dinner.

Now before I get into the nuts and bolts of how our dinner date went down, let’s review what I had written about Matthieu in my speed dating write-up:

Matthieu was kind of cute.  He seemed nice enough (I felt no desire to run away, rip his face off, or vomit.)  His only problem was that he suffered from what I’ve talked about in previous posts: munchkinosis.

He was small enough to fit in the pocket of a petite, 5’3″ Asian woman.

Needless to say, the prospect of seeing him again didn’t exactly thrill my socks off.  But I wasn’t repulsed either — which, in my warped parisian world of low standards, was a plus.


But I tried to convince myself that perhaps I was too harsh on him at speed dating.  Maybe he wasn’t actually that small.  Maybe he was much cuter than I remembered.  Maybe his conversation was titillating.

First impressions aren’t always accurate, but in this case, they were.

Wait.  I’m getting ahead of myself.  First, to be fair, let’s go over the positive aspects of our date:

  • He asked me out to dinner properly. Like a man.  Not nonsense like, “So, do you want to, maybe, hang out or do something sometime?  Together?  But only if you want to.  Do you want to?  Will you want to later?”
  • He picked out a cozy restaurant and booked a table. I hate wandering around until we mutually decide on a place that we see.  (1) It’s never mutual.  (2) I don’t give a shit; I just want to eat, dammit.
  • He was wearing an adorable sweater/jumper. Dear readers, you may not know this about me, but I’m a sucker for a man in a nice sweater/jumper.  There’s something so cuddly about it.  It makes me want to run up and snuggle.
  • He ordered very nice wine. I’m pretty old-school.  Man takes woman out to dine, so man orders the wine.  In my book, it’s really up to him to set the tone of the date with this.  I don’t touch the wine list.  That’s just how I roll.
  • He absolutely refused to let me pay. Believe me, I tried.  What a gentleman.

Matthieu had all the logistics down pat for a very nice date.  On paper, this date should have been perfectly satisfactory.  However, the negative aspects of the date has doomed Matthieu to my ever-expanding gallery of parisian date failures.

  • He was exactly as small as I remembered. My shoulders were broader than his.  Not even an adorable sweater/jumper could save him.
  • He was exactly as (un)cute as I remembered. Now I know why they hold speed dating events at Le Bizen.  The lighting there is freaking amazing.  And by “freaking amazing,” I actually mean, “so dim that you can barely see.”
  • He refused to talk about himself. In fact he refused to talk in general.  Every time I tried to steer the conversation away from me by asking him questions, he’d respond with a few words and throw the conversational ball back at my face.  That’s exhausting for me and wildly inconsiderate on his part.  He essentially forced me to babble in French for over three hours (more or less non-stop).
  • He didn’t make me laugh.  NOT ONCE. And since I promised myself not to fake-laugh anymore after my disastrous date with Mr. Fuckwit, I refused to fake any laughter on this date.  I made myself chuckle quite a few times, but that was clearly due to the copious amounts of wine that I’d drunk.

After teetering home, I crawled into bed, sent a few drunky emails and tweets, and dreamt about hedgehogs and purple daffodils.

People, I’m tired.  And a little broken.

Next, please.

n.b. – Apologies for a lackluster blog post.  I’m a bit strung out in the non-blog and non-dating related areas of my life, so I’m not in top form at the moment.  I’ll try to deliver a more satisfying blog morsel next time!


Filed under Misters

16 responses to “Mr. Not Even Close

  1. Mademoiselle you’re brave.

    I refuse to ever try speed dating or any shindig like such.

    I think I would want to party it up with someone and jump off bridges and cannon ball into water that is questionable if I was in this European land. Not Venice though, I heard the water is feces infested.

    • Thanks, Jimmy. Brave is not the word that I would have used (more like — oh, I don’t know — stupid?)

      The Seine probably isn’t quite as bad as Venice, but I still wouldn’t cannonball into it. Either way, perhaps I’ll try other “shindigs” 🙂

  2. Aw, honey, I get it. Bad date after bad date just gets soooo frustrating and tiresome. Can’t wait for the day when can I stop saying “Next?” Had a dull date myself last night. Strangely, I didn’t really care. I think I’m through caring. Now I just think, OK, I’m going to have these lame dates a lot and now and then I’ll have a good one. Just part of the process. And this post was not lackluster, it was fabulous as usual, just like you with lip gloss 🙂

    • Aw you flatter me, but thanks anyway!:) I suppose that the lame dates at least give me something to write about. Ah, the things we do for writing material!

  3. Oh dear, he sounds like a dullard. Nice post though.
    *Plentymorefishoutofwater – One Man’s Dating Diary*

  4. Well, at least you didn’t want to punch him or vomit. That’s an improvement, yes?

    • HAHA, you’re right! That is quite an improvement! Vomit-free puts him in the running for Prince Charming. I love this optimistic approach of yours…

  5. The post was far from lackluster. I like that you looked at the date for its pros and cons — shows objectivity. It seems that many of us fabulous women are suffering from strings of sub-par men. But one thing to remember is that in these cases, it is truly not us — it’s them.

    Wishing you better luck in the near future,

    PT Lover

    • Thank you for the kind words, PT Lover. I’m still not entirely sure that it’s not me, but I’m going to pretend to make myself feel better 🙂

  6. Alex

    Manshopper, you’re too hard on yourself with your writing. It was a great post and only suffered from lack of good material because this guy didn’t even warrant vociferous repulsion like the last. I’m going with antipathy. How much longer until I get to play your wingman in the South Bay?

  7. Thanks, Alex. You’ve always got my back. 3 June. Bay Area madness, here we come.

  8. Not a bad post at all you silly creature-I thought it was great.
    Though I am starting to wonder about your tendency to attract the smaller men. Shall we make you a t-shirt that reads:

    must be at least six feet to ride this asian

    please, oh please let me make that for you….

    • I’ll let you make that shirt for me as long as you promise that it will showcase massive amounts of puff-paint, glitter AND Bedazzling. Those are my conditions.

      • I can get on board with that.
        While we’re at it, we should rip it and make it an over-the-shoulder tee. Go all eighties with glory.
        Will commence search for materials post-haste.

  9.’s done it again! Superb read!

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