You Say Potato

Back in early 2001, I was waiting for my divorce to be finalized, and I was finally feeling ready to dip a tentative toe back into the dating waters. Early in my separation, when word got out that I was newly single, a number of my friends had taken it upon themselves to try and help remedy that, by suggesting that I go out on a date with one of their friends, a fellow co-worker, or someone they knew from the gym or from church. My answer was always the same… “thanks, but no thanks”, followed by “I’m not ready to date, yet”.

When I did feel ready, and went back to those same friends, asking them to work their matchmaking magic, I quickly learned that those particular boats had all sailed… maybe as a part of an armada, or something. The women that they’d wanted to set me up with were all now either: a) happily married; b) in a long-term relationship; c) met someone the previous week, but it already looked promising; or d) had come to terms with their true sexual orientation, and were happily out of the closet. And yes, that last one really did happen.

This was back in the good old days when companies still invested in training their employees, and my then employer was no exception. We had really great training facilities on site, and there was a wealth of courses which were readily available, if you expressed an interest. I was invited to attend a Leadership course, and, as was often the case, I was one of the youngest attendees. This time, there was someone else younger than me, and that was this very driven woman, who was in her mid to late 30s. I really liked the energy that she brought to the breakout sessions, and after the first day of the course had ended, I found myself lingering with her in the car park, revisiting some of the things that we had covered on the first day. There had been this ready attraction between us, and so with hindsight, I think that she was hoping that I would ask her out. If that was the case, I freely admit to being totally oblivious.

The following day, she was a little late to class, and the only seat left was next to me. In one of the exercises, we had to role play different scenarios, and it became really clear that we were enjoying each other’s company. The end of the day found us lingering in the car park again, where I found myself answering her question about my relationship status, and availability to meet up for a drink, later. The course had let us out early, with strict instructions not to go back to work, so she was going to run a couple of errands, but then suggested that maybe we could continue our conversation over drinks and appetizers. I said that I’d love to, but to be honest, I still wasn’t really sure whether it was a date or not. It had been more than 20 years since I’d last dated, and I’d been pretty clueless then, too.

A couple of hours later, we reconnected in a popular bar/restaurant, just over the border into Pennsylvania. As usual, the place was pretty crowded, and conversation was challenging. Things seemed to be going really well between us… definite chemistry… CHECK… mutual physical attraction… CHECK… easy conversation… CHECK. We decided to order some appetizers, and when the server brought the silverware, the knife slipped, and was on track to stab into the back of my hand, if I hadn’t jerked my hand away.

I felt the need to explain my over-reaction, and at that point, maybe the noise in the bar got overly loud for a moment. Whatever the reason, my companion missed the first part of the explanation (when I told her about almost removing the top section of my 3rd finger on my left hand… the key lesson being never to try separating two frozen beef burgers, with a freshly-sharpened butcher’s knife), and then missed most of the second part (where I told her about how someone who knew about my aichmophobia, or fear of sharp things, had come at me with a kitchen knife. No, instead she heard the first part of my final sentence, when due to the fact that I hadn’t had the benefit of Google to look up specific phobias, I’d described in laymen’s terms how I felt about knives, particularly if they were in the hands of someone who either didn’t respect them, or intentionally wanted to scare me.

I guess the lesson that we could both have learned from what happened next is that when in doubt, ask clarifying questions. Instead, her tone changed to one of concern, and she asked me whether it was something that I was getting help with. I told her that I wasn’t, and that I didn’t feel the need to. I sensed that I hadn’t fully answered her question, or not to her satisfaction, at least. I found myself explaining that I had accepted and understood my fears, and that my way of dealing with it was just to be careful, and not put myself into situations where that could be an issue. “Oh”, she said. “I see”, she said.

Our conversation switched topics again, and I noticed both a cooling and a certain physical distancing. Instead of leaning in and mirroring my body language, I was now picking up different vibes. It was almost as if she couldn’t wait to get away. While our polite small talk continued, I was running through the things that I’d said in my head. What was it that I’d said that might have offended her? It was then that the lightbulb came on over my head, and so I asked her if something had bothered her about my knife story. Maybe she’d had a bad experience, and it had been triggering for her? Her response was to stare at me blankly, as if I was mistakenly talking about a conversation that I’d had with someone else.

I decided to try and nudge her memory, saying “you know, when I told you about my irrational fear of knives?”  She blushed deeply, whilst simultaneously choking on some of her lite beer that seemed to go down the wrong way. When she’d composed herself, she said “Oh, you were talking about an irrational fear of knives?”  I thought that you said that you had an “erectional fear”. What I learned that night, was that there are those misunderstandings that you can recover from, and there those that you just don’t, and that we’d just encountered the latter.