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Going Dutch
By Lisa Steadman, AKA The Relationship Journalist™
 After having had one too many bad first dates with men I'd met online, I decided to increase my odds of a successful second date by trying my luck at Speed Dating. The particular event I chose promised I'd meet ten fabulous men in one night. AND, I'd only have to talk to each one for five minutes.
If you ask me, that's the perfect length for a first date.
On the night in question, I entered the hotel a few minutes early and circulated the perimeter, checking out the prospects. There were the requisite too good looking to give me the time of day Hollywood types on the couch. The pretending to be under the 40-year age limit lawyers, the wallflowers I'd no doubt intimidate, and him.
He wasn't good looking, per se, but he had a good look. His balding head was shaved close. His glasses were hip but not pretentious. And he could dress himself. Deep blue dress shirt open at the collar, tailored khakis, and shoes that looked recently shined. A low maintenance metrosexual. Perfect.
Once our hostess explained the rules of Speed Dating (guys stayed seated while girls moved from table to table. Something about men not being able to follow simple instructions), it was every woman for herself. I quickly made a beeline for him.
When the bell rang (again, those rule-challenged men), the games began. We asked the usual first questions. What do you do? Where do you live? I told him I was a thirtysomething writer who'd recently bought a condo in the South Bay. He seemed impressed and then told me he was an architect who lived down the street in Venice Beach. As we chatted, I did my best to be charming while subtly trying to discern Mr. Architect's exact age. Judging from the laugh lines around the eyes, and the receding-but-shaved head, I guessed mid-thirties. A mid-thirties architect. With a place on the beach. Nicely done, Lisa!
When the bell rang, I have to admit I felt pretty confident in myself and this whole Speed Dating thing. In under five minutes, I'd captured the interest of an intriguing, handsome, and soft-spoken architect whose extra-curricular interests included writing, film, and the outdoors. Just like me!
The rest of the evening was relatively uneventful. I played along with the Speed Dating rules, traveling from man to man, making polite conversation. But really, I wasn't paying much attention. After all, I had a handsome, interesting architect I couldn't wait to get to know better!
The next morning, as expected, I got an email confirming that Mr. Architect and I were indeed a match. Later that day, he called and invited me out for drinks in Venice that weekend. Not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump from the South Bay, but I was game. I met Mr. Architect at this quaint café on trendy Main Street. We sat at the bar, drank red wine, and talked for hours. I learned about his childhood in Tucson and his backpacking trips to Montana, my home state. He asked all the right questions about writing, travel, and family. Hands down, it was the best first date ever. Until...
The bill came.
As Mr. Architect reached for the bill, I did my usual slow-reach-for-my-purse. While I'm a thoroughly modern gal, I do have a few basic rules. And they go something like this. When a man asks me on a first date, I expect he'll be picking up the tab. Especially when I've driven to his area of town and we only ordered drinks. However, as I sat waiting for Mr. Architect to throw down cash or plastic, he instead stunned me with seven little words.
"Do you mind if we split it?"
Surprised, I leaned over to check the bill. $28.
$28?
And he wanted to split it?
Quickly recovering from my shock, I reached into my purse and produced the required cash, adding a generous tip just to show him one of us wasn't a cheapskate. Then I stood up. Mr. Architect stood up, too, stretching and complaining of back pain. He even made a comment about "getting older." I seized the opportunity to casually ask his age, wondering how a thirtysomething architect with a house on the beach could possibly think it was okay to go dutch on a first date with fabulous moi.
"28."
Mental note: If this date were an episode of Sesame Street, it would have been sponsored by the number 28. And the letter C for clueless, which I suddenly felt.
After my last two disastrous relationships with twentysomething men, I'd sworn them off. And yet somehow, without my consent or knowledge, I had spent an entire evening on a date with a another twentysomething. How had this happened? Had I not asked all the right questions? There were the undergrad years at Princeton, grad school at UCLA, time spent working at the small architectural firm on Wilshire. My mind clickety-clacked as it tallied up the numbers...
"So you've been at your job for...?"
"Six months."
I must have looked surprised because Mr. Architect added, "And I don't exactly have a house on the beach. More like a rental near it...with roommates."
And suddenly everything made sense. I hadn't been on a date with Thirtysomething Architect, but rather, Twentysomething Dutch Boy.
On the drive home, I had plenty of time to think. I realized that maybe my preconceived notions had gotten the best of me. And while deep down I knew Twentysomething Dutch Boy and Thirtysomething Architect were one and the same, I knew there would be no successful second date with either one. After all, if dating was a game of convenience for him (and all signs pointed to yes), then I wasn't willing to play by his rules, even if I was perfectly capable of following all the directions.
Lisa Steadman is the site creator and editor of www.BreakupChronicles.com featuring real stories of how breaking up with the Wrong person was the Right thing to do.
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