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February 2001 Issue

A Match Made in Henna

By Sharon Schatz

Glenn and I were introduced at a Friday night dinner outing with some friends. Apparently, everyone knew we were being set up--everyone but him.

"We didn't want to make him nervous," my friend Heather, the setter-upper explained. Oh, great--a guy who gets nervous about being set up. Who gets nervous about being set up? That night, I couldn't eat.

We sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, separated by about ten people. We kept sneaking looks at each other the whole night, but were too far away to talk--to each other, that is. So instead, we both contributed to the group conversation. He impressed me with his rendition of the dance that Marcia and Mrs. Brady did in that talent show episode of The Brady Bunch. I impressed him by knowing all the lyrics to the Love, Sidney TV show theme song.

Okay, so we were both TV people. That didn't really mean anything.

He walked me to my car. I disengaged my alarm and he jumped three feet in the air. "Sorry," I giggled. He looked around to make sure his friends weren't watching. Of course, they were.

"Um, do you have a number?" He swallowed. "Yes, I do," I smiled and didn't say anything else. Oh boy, was I a card. What was it about this guy that made me so nervous, but so playfully smug at the same time?

We decided to meet at the Promenade, a big outdoor shopping mall for our first date. It was cold and rainy. I was wearing a short skirt and sandals and was freezing my butt off next to the dinosaur sculptures. Funny, I'd been to the mall a zillion times, but never noticed them before. Then, there he was. He spotted me and smiled. He wore a funny tweed jacket, but somehow he looked adorable.

"How are you?" "Good, how are you?" "Good, how are you?" And, yeah, there you had it. We both looked around nervously. What do I say? God, what was wrong with me? I've been on tons of these things! Even with Jeremy, the 23-year-old child prodigy who'd never heard of Starbucks and lived with his mother--I had plenty to say to HIM.

We smiled at each other in awkward embarrassment. I looked around, reaching for anything to talk about. I looked down at my feet for inspiration. Wait! I got it! "Uh--I got a henna tattoo!" I lifted my newly painted ankle and showed him the chainlink bracelet design. He looked down and studied my dangling leg.

Oh my God, what did I just say? "I got a henna tattoo??" He's going to think he's on a date with a weird Harley chick.

He stuttered, "Oh, it's--how did you--I mean--a henna--" Tongue-tied, he seemed to be struggling for the appropriate reaction. Either he's nervous or he's totally disgusted. Oh no, what if he's thinking about that thing where if you have a tattoo, you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery! He can't marry me because I can't be buried in the same cemetery! Yes, I can! He thinks I don't practice. I was Bat Mitzvahed! I was confirmed! Sh'maaaa yisrael! I do the high holidays. It's a temporary tattoo. I can be buried next to you! He opened his mouth to speak, but then paused for a second. Oh, no, here it came. "It's very pretty," he smiled again. What? Really? It is? What if I faint? He had a nice smile.

We went to a Thai restaurant and ordered a bunch a food that neither of us could eat. He was too nervous; I had stomach issues. He became worried that my stomach issues meant I didn't like the restaurant.

"We don't have to stay here. We can go someplace else, if you want. We really don't have to eat here. We can leave--" He paused and looked worried again. "Wait--I didn't mean the date's over. You didn't think that's what I meant, did you?" All right, who set this up? Was this a joke? It was like someone had told him to go on this date and play ME--me in boy form.

Somehow, staring at the chicken that neither of us touched, we began to relax--a little. "See, at camp, I was the smart, fat kid," he told me.

Camp? This guy went to camp? I AM camp! I AM fat! Wait, no. I'm not fat, but I relate to fat. Inside I'm fat. It was interesting he was calling himself fat because he wasn't. Why did he think he was fat? How could he think something about himself that was so clearly untrue? I mean, what kind of person thinks--OKAY--shut up, don't say it--this is frightening.

He told me about the activities and clubs he joined back in high school: Model Congress, Physics Club, fencing, marching band, and Olympics of the Mind. Olympics of the Mind! Oh my God, I'm on a date with a geek and I like it!

We wandered over to Starbucks and discussed every bad date we had both been on in our entire lives. I have the story of the guy with the bad pants. He has the girl with bad teeth. AND the girl with the facial hair. This is weird. This is so weird that I'm going to have to go with it.

And I did.

P.S. I no longer have the henna tattoo--but I have something better.

Sharon Schatz is a writer/editor for a popular television network Web site. She is also a freelance writer based in Los Angeles.

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