I met “Mitch” the Wednesday before spring break at Level B.* A friend had just turned 21 at the stroke of midnight on Wednesday (well, technically I guess it was Thursday morning) and a large group of us were out to celebrate her birthday in style. This involved a lot of yelling, a lot of dancing, and a lot of fishbowls.
Level B was packed, and for once the DJ was playing a nonstop rotation of awesome music instead of Guns’n’Roses or Michael Jackson songs mashed up into bastardized techno remixes of death. Don’t laugh, I’ve heard it done at Level B before. Maybe every song is awesome when you’re screaming along with a bunch of your buddies though… I might have to do some more research on this.
Either way, Mitch came up to me and extended his hand, asking me to dance with him. This immediately distinguished him from the majority of guys at sweaty, overcrowded dance parties, and from the other men who had approached me that night. A sizable chunk of them sneak-attack dance on you from behind. I guess they’re afraid of rejection so they figure if they just start grinding up on you, you can’t say no? Gentlemen, for the record, no lady appreciates this move. Step up your game and ask first!
Score one for Mitch right off the bat. Cute, tall, polite? So far, so good. He even turned out to be a good dancer, and wasn’t overly grabby. DFM** may be a common sight at frat dance parties, Level B, and Dino’s, but for me this wasn’t one of those nights. Nothing is quite so off-putting as a guy that can’t read body language and tries too aggressively.
Mitch ends up sticking around for a while, awkwardly trying to make conversation over the thumping bass as we danced. A half-hour of grinding in Level B does not a connection make however, so when the clock struck one and the liquor stopped flowing, our group packed it up to continue carousing at a friend’s place across the street and I figured that was that. Imagine my surprise when Mitch follows us out of the club, and asks for my number!
“Well,” I thought to myself, “at the very worst I give him my number and he either doesn’t call, or sends a hilarious text late at night trying to get booty that I’ll laugh about with my friends.” I gave him my number, and miracles never cease! Mitch texted me that night, saying that it was nice to meet me. We exchanged texts over break, and he called me during the start of the week after everyone got back to campus.
As you may have heard, the Mountain Goats played in Ithaca over the weekend. They had a show at Castaways, a sketchy dank cave down past the Commons that few Cornell students visit. If you guys have eaten at the Boatyard Grill with your parents, it’s the little shack nearby with a rotting boat hull in front of it. The place is a dirty, low-roofed, sticky-floored disaster, but they do have some good bands play there… like the Mountain Goats. I’m OBSESSED with the Mountain Goats, but it was looking unlikely that I’d be able to con any of my friends into making the trek there with me for the show. So, I asked Mitch.
Long story short, we ended up not being able to get tickets—they sold out just as I went online to buy a pair. Dejected, with my concert plans shot, I texted Mitch to tell him that the Mountain Goats was a no-go. I decided to go to the AEPirates party instead Saturday night. Nothing cures the blues like dressing up as a pirate.
Mitch was undeterred. Instead of going to Castaways, why not see a band at the Nines? I demurred, saying that if I could not have Mountain Goats, I would have pirates in their place! He countered with an offer of dinner prior to the beginning of swashbuckling. I was amenable, and we met up in CTB at around 8, where we decided to go to Stella’s for dinner.
Now, maybe I’m the only one, but I honestly hate Stella’s. In their defense, they have awesome specialty cocktails and drinks, but that’s about all they have to recommend them. Everything is overpriced, and the food isn’t even that good. Also, choosing Stella’s feels like a cop-out. It’s unadventurous, guys seem to think it’s the default restaurant for dinner dates (which are an unadventurous choice of activity for a first date anyways). Gentlemen, you do know that there are other places to go, right? The Commons is full of awesome places to get food, and it’s only a short walk away. Or, you could really step it up and cook. OR, you could double step it up and choose something besides dinner as a date activity.
Mitch showed up on time, which was super promising. I hate awkwardly standing around waiting for my friends or date to show up. I have friends, I swear! Anyways, we headed over to Stella’s and got a table downstairs. For those of you who haven’t been there, it’s one of the few semi-classy sit-down dinner places in C-town. The area downstairs is kind of like an ultra-mod cave, with curved white stucco walls and recessed lighting fixtures. There is a seating area, and a second bar in the corner.
Dinner goes ooooookay. I’m not entirely sure if we’re clicking in a friendzone fashion, or in a potential booty manner. I’m starving, so I unashamedly wolf down my Ellawrap while Mitch picks at his burger. Like many girls, I’m more than a little self-conscious about what I eat in relation to my dining partner, so this makes me feel like a little bit of a pig. Whatevs, I swallow down my insecurity with bites of veggies. We swap stories of childhood badassery, compare interests, and talk about what kinds of music we like. It’s an amiable hour or so.
Dinner draws to a close. Although I offered to split the bill with Mitch, he footed the entire bill. I’m actually perfectly fine going Dutch on a date. I know a lot of guys are leery about taking women up on their offers to pay, and rightly so. In high school, my friends referred to it as “the purse grab”: making an exaggerated motion towards one’s purse or wallet in an “offer” to help pay for dinner, when really you have no intention of doing so and you’re waiting for him to stop you with a “No, I got this.”
Thankfully, I have at least matured to the point where I no longer brattily expect whoever I’m dating to pick up the entire tab. Some dates offer to pay, only to be resentful if you say yes. Some dates offer to pay, and are fine with it if you say yes. A good rule of thumb is whoever did the date-asking-out pays; then the party that was treated to dinner can pick up drinks later.
The night was still young, and I wasn’t planning on heading over to AEPi until 11:30 at the earliest. I suggest heading over to the Nines for a drink, and off we go. Things pick up a bit over beers. Mitch and I are a lot flirtier and I’m really enjoying myself. He begins to touch my arm to emphasize points in his stories, and leans in to me when he laughs. It’s cute, I’m digging it, and suddenly we lock eyes. This is it. Public makeout time!
It starts off slow, which is great. I’m a big fan of letting anticipation build, as opposed to him jumping on me open-mouthed like an overeager Labrador. The sound from the bar filters out, and it’s like the Nines has shrunk down to a bubble around me and Mitch. But then I realize that although he has the intro down pat, he’s a terrible kisser. It’s like being pecked at by a duck trying to eat breadcrumbs from your mouth.
After a bit, he pulls back and gives me a dazzling smile. I, on the other hand, am somewhat underwhelmed. I smile gamely back. Bad first kisses aren’t necessarily a deal breaker. It’s not like he licked my nose or anything (true story, someone did that to me. In what world is that sexy?) Mitch then comes out with this gem: “That’s all you get for tonight!” Or something close to that, along the lines of how I wasn’t getting into his pants that night. On one hand, super presumptuous; on the other hand, kind of nice that he’s not expecting me to put out.
After settling up the bill (I paid for our two rounds, after all, he did pay for dinner), we head back through Ctown. I’m going home to change into my pirate outfit. Pirates yaaarrrrr! At the intersection of Eddy and Buffalo, mere blocks from my house, Mitch bids me goodbye with another kiss, indicating that he’s heading down to a party in a direction that apparently did not include walking me home.
Now for me, this is a deal breaker. What kind of man doesn’t walk a lady friend to her door? Even my platonic male friends walk will generally escort me to my house. I hid my indignation, and we parted ways. With righteous fingers, I updated my Facebook status: “Didn’t walk me home? Dating FAIL Mitch from ******”. This provoked a variety of reactions. Some people, like Wandi ‘12, agreed that not being walked home was a deal breaker. “That’s the first thing I notice,” she said, “the opening doors, table manners, and the like.” Another friend, Mariola (Macaulay Honors College ’11), asked if perhaps Mitch was oblivious and I was overly picky, considering I only lived a few blocks away. She also called me out on my passive aggression. Admittedly, I could have ASKED Mitch to walk me home instead of angrily updating my Facebook, but where’s the fun in that? Tony ’10 dryly noted that it didn’t sound as if I “liked him that much anyways.”
Mitch has asked me to hang out with him several times since our dinner date. Due to my crazy busy schedule and overall mehh feelings about Mitch, I’ve avoided making a final decision. He’s nice enough, but I’m not so sure he’s for me. We both deserve someone we’d be crazy about, I deserve someone who will walk me home, and he deserves someone who isn’t busily venting about their date on Her Campus. These people are out there somewhere, goddammit!
*For those of you who were somehow unaware of this mainstay of Cornellian culture, Wednesday nights are fishbowl nights at Level B. For $18, you are served a large plastic fishbowl filled with crushed ice, a pint glass’ worth of cheap vodka, and your choice of a vibrant, Kool-Aid-esque blue or red drank mixer. (FYI, always get the blue drank). Each fishbowl comes with 10-20 neon straws of various hues so you can share with your friends, and a plastic animal for everyone to fight over. Many a house in Collegetown features a menagerie of safari animals and dinosaurs in compromising positions, or, as my mom remarked when she visited my house after break: “Oh Kate, how lovely—the zebra is humping a lion.”
**Dance floor makeout
Sources
Mariola (Macaulay Honors College ’11)
Tony ’10
Wandi ‘13