Preguntamé

A few weeks ago, I wrote that first dates are the easiest aspect of dating; I may need to amend. While I still believe the wisdom of my younger self, I had an experience last night that tried the theory. Holes have been punched.

What I definitely don't want is for this blog to become a chronicle of bad dates or even good ones. Dating blogs are a little nineties, a little "Sex in the City." I'm too femmy to write a full-on dating blog, and, frankly, I'd be lying to say I go on enough dates to warrant an entire blog ("Wayne, I don't even own A gun, much less many guns to necessitate an entire rack.") When the spirit hits me, however, I may write a post about dating. I vow to counteract every such post with something highly intellectual so I can remain in the good graces of the women-folk over at Scripps College. At the very least, I vow to pen something about teaching in retaliation, which--for better or for worse--dominates my life way more than dating.

Now that that's out of the way, this post is about a date. A bad date. Worse than bad: Boring. I've long considered Boring (with a capitol B) to be the highest insult you can dish out--the worst form of slander. I fear people call me Boring behind my back, and because I believe in karma, I use the adjective sparingly (mostly about movies). But in this instance I'm confident it's warranted. Allow me to be heavy-handed.

Really this post is about a pet peeve that I encountered on a bad, Boring date. My pet peeve is when people aren't inquisitive--when they refuse to ask questions, to find out more. And it's not just because I like to talk about myself, though I do. Questions allow you to know a person, to get into a person's head and figure it all out. If you're not asking questions--if you're nixing inquisition--chances are the conversation is mostly about you. Not only are you depriving yourself of the pleasure of good conversation, you're sending the message that you just don't care. You're scoring a second date only if the girl loves an asshole.

Here's a brief tutorial on how to have a conversation, in case you've never had one before or on the off-chance you're a one-legged deaf-mute straight outta Southern Gothic literature:

Conversations are about getting to know people, at least initially. Definitely on a first date. Ask simple questions--topics could include your job, your family, your friends, favorite bars. Open up. Get your convo partner to open up. Reciprocate in kind when asked a question; it's the normal, polite thing to do. Also, the person asked you first, so it's a throw-away--easy stuff, no excuses. If you're feeling conversationally ambitious, stray from the standard questions and get creative. Banter and intrigue will flow from questioning, but you gotta start with the basics.

This man, I'll call him Dave (Dave is his real name. Cue libel), did not ask me a single question in the time it took me to drink one beer and him to drink two (it was a sign when I didn't order a second, buddy). He missed social cues, he rambled about himself, he was dreadfully dull.

The conversation went a little something like this:

Me: "So, what do you do?"
Dave: "I'm a resident nurse in a hospital uptown."
Me: "that's awesome!"

Wait for it. Return question. Reciprocate. Do it. This is easy, man.

Nothing.

Me: "so, you must have seen some crazy stuff...?"
Dave: Tells a long, Boring story about blood.
Me: "wow, that's intense. sounds like you really like what you do, though."
Dave: "yeah it's great."

Wait for it. Again, nothing. Alright, back to me.

Me again: "So, how long have you been a RN?"

And so it flowed--or so it didn't. My simple questions went un-returned over and over again. Much, much later, it seemed to hit him that he didn't even know my profession, so about an hour in, he somehow figured out I'm a teacher. Other than that, though, the date ended and I don't think Dave could have told you much of anything about me. Whereas I could ghost-write D-Money's biography, he could barely write my 150 word obituary (is that morbid?).

After a while, this one-sided conversation/therapy session got so unbearably capital B Boring that sick thoughts started flowing through my head: I'd rather be anywhere but here. I'd rather be stuck in traffic on the BOLT bus to Boston. I'd rather be sitting at grad school (formerly, my personal hell) listening to a lecture about how to effectively teach math to fourth graders. I can't believe I wasted eyeliner on this. I want those beer calories back, but that Negra Modela is the only thing stopping me from slitting my wrist with a tortilla chip.

About halfway through the date, I faked a bathroom trip; I've never done that before. I leaned my back against the bathroom door and texted my roommate SOS. Then I checked my Facebook account. And nytimes.com.

This pet peeve has long bothered me in friends, family and dates alike. It's bothered me in people I love and in people I never want to see again. Asking questions of other people shows you're interested. It shows you care about them--whether it's a first date never to be repeated or years into a friendship. Relationships of true value are about reciprocation. You give information and you take information in. It's just kind of how it works.

I wonder how non-questioners got to be that way. Maybe they were raised by wolves or maybe they really are just that self-centered. Being a good conversationalist is a tricky skill, and I definitely don't have it down, but I do know that showing interest and being inquisitive gets you far--on a first date and in life. I don't have that much patience with those who can't do it because it just ain't that hard. Start simple and work your way up. A good conversation is worth the throw-down.