I’m 31, and last week I matched with a 27-year-old woman. We texted consistently before our Thursday dinner date, which gave the whole thing a promising amount of momentum. We had a reservation at a nice restaurant. The basic infrastructure was in place.
Her profile pictures weren’t especially clear, and she kept describing herself as weird while we were messaging. Looking back, I’ve been treating those details as warning signs, although “weird” is a fairly broad category to investigate over text.
She arrived ten minutes late, with messy hair and a noticeably wrinkled outfit. It made a bad first impression on me. I’d picked a nice place, and the difference between what I’d expected and what I saw was hard to overlook.
Still, the date wasn’t a disaster. I enjoyed the food. I enjoyed the conversation. There wasn’t some spectacular incident that would make this story easier to explain. Dinner was pleasant, which is inconvenient when you’re trying to account for why you don’t want to do it again.
As we talked, I got the impression that her life was pretty unsettled. I didn’t come away thinking she was someone I wanted to date. That was my reaction, even though I could enjoy sitting across from her for an evening.
It took me a day to sort out exactly how I felt, so I didn’t reach out right away. I wasn’t ready with an immediate verdict when dinner ended. By the time I had one, the answer was that I wasn’t interested in a second date.
I tried to let her down gently. Somewhere in that effort, I offered to stay friends.
That’s the part I keep coming back to. I knew I didn’t want to keep dating, but I’m less sure what I intended the friendship offer to accomplish. It sounded considerate at the time. On review, it feels like I added another proposal while trying to decline the first one.
Now I’m wondering how well I handled the whole thing, especially that final offer. Apparently, I needed a day to understand the date and a little longer to understand my own exit.
