The Dating Game - Middle

My foray into the world of online dating is all well and good until it is actually time for my first Kiwi date. Why am I doing this? What are we going to talk about? I remember that it’s not 1955 and people don’t go on “dates” anymore.

Up to this point, I’ve had exactly 2 honest-to-goodness legitimate “first dates” in my entire life. Date #1 was bad from the get-go. Date #2 seemed okay, but I never heard from the guy again. I was disappointed, not because I liked him, but because I couldn’t fathom why he wouldn’t like me. My mom suggested: “He’s not interested because you’re so much younger and you’re leaving the country in a few months.” Wait a minute – isn’t that every man’s dream?! Now I feel even worse! I resist the urge to track him down and break the news: “Listen, pal. You’re a 39-year-old bald bartender. I’m as good as it gets for you.”

Onto NZ bachelor #1 - The first young Kiwi male to have the pleasure of my company is Geoff. (But I dislike that spelling, so I’ll call him as Jeff.) Jeff and I meet for coffee after work. He offers to pay, then his first credit card is declined. Grrreat. He begins disrobing as soon as we sit down. Hold your horses, cowboy! My coffee doesn’t even have whiskey! The tie comes off, but the pants stay on.

The bigger problem is that I can’t understand a flipping word this guy says. I haven’t had much trouble with the Kiwi accent so far, but I also haven’t had long conversations in noisy environments. I smile a lot. I concentrate. Sustained eye contact is a good clue that he’s asked a question, not made a statement.

One of the first questions Jeff asks is, “How are you going to vote?” Point blank, out of nowhere! I kind of laugh, “How am I going to vote?! Um, Obama” (and I alert him to the personal nature of the question). Jeff replies, “No, I mean HOW are you going to vote? Like, what do you have to do?” Note to self: register for absentee ballot. He requests a tutorial about the American political process. Riveting. Half of what I say is probably inaccurate.

If he can ask such pragmatic questions about my country, I’ll do the same. “What’s the deal with 21st birthdays around here?” This has been weighing on me. The Kiwi 21st birthday is like the American Sweet 16, but the significance is a mystery because the drinking age is 18. I’ve perused the selection of 21st birthday cards, but they don’t betray any clues. Jeff says 21 is a milestone because you are considered a real “adult.” No new legal privileges. Much ado about nothing, if you ask me.

Jeff tells me he used to play on the national ice hockey team. I don’t know whether or not this is impressive. Probably not because I haven’t heard a word about ice hockey since arriving in New Zealand… and it is winter.

Continuing on the topic of sport (singular - Kiwis don’t say “sports”), Jeff makes some cockamamie claim about NZ having done better than the US in the Olympics. Obviously false (!), but I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he is trying to initiate a flirty fight. However, I don't take the bait. I don't even bother to defend my homeland.

I’m sorry, America. He’s not worth our energy.