I don’t think I’ve ever publicly shared this story, but enough time has passed now that I think it’s acceptable. There was a time when I was heavily into match.com. Along came a girl.
The way things typically went with me on match: someone would email me, then we’d exchange a couple of emails. If I thought there was anything, then we might move to im’ing each other. And swap real email addresses. No phone calls. Or maybe just straight to a first date after emailing on match.
“Sally” didn’t have any sort of instant messenger. That should’ve sent up a red flag, but it didn’t. Emails are so guarded, but with instant messaging, you can’t take your time to formulate your responses. And the way of communicating through im is telling in it’s own way. So about Sally: she was a 30yo grad student at the time and most of her life revolved around school. She was really timid, which is fine, but more so than me and I’m usually pretty shy around people I don’t know. REALLY nice girl. So anyway, Sally and I decide to go on a date. We met at a restaurant, I brought her some flowers that she was partial to, and the whole night was awkward. She was clearly uncomfortable and I had a hard time getting her to talk. I mean, it’s one thing to be shy, but she seemed petrified. So we managed to get through dinner, and she did laugh some. After dinner, we said goodnight to each other, and I thought, well, ok, there’s a friend, but I didn’t see it going anywhere.
We email each other afterwards and somehow a second date is now in the works. Knowing the type of person she is and thinking she’d have fun, I say, “Well, why don’t we go bowling this Saturday here in town? There’s an alley right down the street, we can go do that, then maybe I can fix lunch, and we can hang out.” The kids are with me, so I think we can all go bowling. OK, sounds good. About an hour before she’s supposed to come over, she calls and says she’s not sure she feels like bowling but still wants to hang out. Ok. That’s fine. “Oh, and can I ask a favor? Can I do some laundry while I’m there? I really want to get it done today.”
Grad student. No laundry machine in her apartment, I understand. “Sure, no problem.”
Six Hours!! For six hours she was going back and forth to her car, unloading and loading every article of laundry she has. My washing machine and dryer running non-stop as she’s folding her dainties and sweatpants and towels in my living room. SIX HOURS!!!!
Now, if I had known her better or if she had had ANY ability to come out of her shell, that would’ve been one thing. Instead, I spent a perfectly beautiful Saturday afternoon struggling to come up with conversation to try to fill the silent awkward moments that came one after another, while in the background, my washing machine thump-thumped it’s little heart out to another rinse cycle. By hour three, I walked out with her to her car to see exactly how much laundry there was. It seemed endless.
Eventually, it did end. But when she had come over that day, she had brought a cookbook for me to look at and show me some recipes. She “accidentally” left it here. I was actually totally bummed when I found it. Not long afterward, she emailed me and asked me about the cookbook; could I drop it off, or if that was inconvenient, could I mail it. I mailed it. So, from that Saturday forward, she was rightfully named Laundry Girl.
We did actually have a third date. It was comically tragic. I remember that night almost perfectly. It was about a month or so after the laundry escapade. The kids were with me in the car, and I was actually driving over to have dinner with the ex-in-laws (we were friendly at the time). So I get this call and it’s Sally. (“Who is it, Dad?” Hand over the mouth piece, “Laundry Girl.” They know.) So we’re talking, I’m asking her how she’s doing. Within minutes, she’s bawling. Crying her eyes out. Doing the heaving thing with her shoulders (unmistakable even over a cell phone.) “What’s wrong!?!?!”
“WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME? WHATS THE MATTER WITH ME?!”
Oh you have GOT to be kidding me. “No, no, it’s not you,” I tell her And it wasn’t. There was nothing wrong with her; she really just was NOT my type. At all. We could be married and the laundry story is still funny as crap. So I talk to her and try to console her, talk about the problems she’s having. She’s super depressed. So I say, “Well, look, I’m heading out to dinner right now, but why don’t we go see a movie tonight? You need to get out.” Two hours later and she’s standing in front of the ticket booth waiting as the boys and I pull up, me having just finished explaining to them why we’re at the movies. And THAT was the last time we saw each other.
That whole night was nuts. Adding onto the weirdness of the night was that while I was driving to the theater, another ex-girlfriend called to see if we could do anything because SHE was depressed. So it was a night filled with exs. My kids remember the whole thing, too. They only know her as Laundry Girl. Funny.
I do wonder how she’s doing these days. And if she ever got a washer and dryer.
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