the wild world of dating

I am back on the dating market. And I'm rusty.

For instance, most women would probably know instinctively that, if you cancel with Guy A because Guy B can only meet that same night, then it's probably better not to get interviewed for the evening news. Especially, um, if you told Guy A you were sick.

In my defense, I am sick. Just not sick enough to pass up meeting Guy B.

Here's what happened. I'm sitting in Bar Bambino with Guy B, and we're having a lovely time flirting. He's showing me pictures of his airplane on his iPhone, which has a pretty nifty feature of being able to blow up the photo with the flick of the owner's fingers. There is much flicking. We are drinking Italian pinot nero wine, eating wild boar salami, and fighting over the last remnants of the best cheeses I have ever had tasted, hands down. Then, the floor begins to move.

It was a 5.6 earthquake, centered in the south bay just after 8pm. Guy B thinks at first it's the underground BART train. He looks deep into my eyes and says, "Do you feel that?" and I think, um, yeah, right down to my toes, buddy. Then I do. The floor is rocking and tilting, more like an undulating aftershock than a sharp quake. It seems to go on forever. "60, 80 seconds," I estimate for the cameraman from NBC Nightly News. The real time was 15 seconds, but it seems longer. Maybe that's because your brain is grappling with the fundamental paradigm shift of 'ground is moving' along with the awful possibility of 'walls crumbling' and 'building collapsing' not to mention the horror-show image of 'ground opening like a giant maw to swallow you into the bowels of the earth.' Longest 15 seconds I ever felt.

The cameraman wanted to know what the earthquake felt like. I told him it felt like an earthquake.

I have had a crush on Guy B for 9 years. A good crush is like an acorn: you can bury it someplace and come back and dig it up later when you need a hit of excitement. No girl should go too long without a snack.

The date went well. It turns out Guy B has got himself a girlfriend already, however, so there won't be more meetings. (I do have scruples about some things.) That brings us back to Guy A, who graciously agreed to take me out for dessert, even though, technically, he won our bet: Beethoven's 9th is in fact his only choral symphony. That's true, however, only because Choral Episode is an opus. Who knew a piece of music had to have four movements to qualify as a symphony? I didn't. Now where's my ice cream?

Stay warm and well out there tonight, tricker or treaters. And let me know if I show up on the evening news.