With Pigalle from my last story finally behind me (I hope he got lost in the Swiss Alps somewhere), I thought I would try my luck on the dating site called miilionairematch.com. My friend Zoe swore by this site and told me that I would be able to finally separate the men from the boys by venturing outside of Match.com. So, I gave it a try!
It all seemed very straightforward: The matchmakers at millionairematch.com had matched me with a well-to-due dentist in his forties and his profile came off as very authentic. I was excited—I figured that if he was single and in his forties, he’d most likely already been screwed up by a former relationship and was ready to settle down with the “the one.” He was interested in me, or so I thought.
We exchanged pictures—no problems there. We spoke on the phone a few times. Again, no warning signs. We finally agreed to meet at Blue Water Grill, a seafood restaurant in Union Square. We met out front and were immediately seated at a wonderful table.
Here’s where things started to get really—how should I put this—otherworldly.
As we sat down together at this wonderful table in this lovely restaurant, the look on MI’s face was anything but wonderful and lovely. It was more like perplexed. What could possibly be the problem? We had exchanged pictures. We had spoken on the phone. When he opened his mouth to explain his distress, what came out was definitely one for the books:
“You’re not the girl I was supposed to meet!”
WTF?
(I'm pretty sure this is what my face looked like)
He looked just like his picture, as did I. We both arrived at the pre-designated time and place. What could possibly be the problem? My personal, self-preserving assumption is that I looked so good that night it simply freaked him out.
As we sat there in utter disbelief (me, especially), the poor waiter made three separate attempts to take our order, while we bantered back and forth about his true identity. I still have no idea exactly what happened or how, but we ultimately agreed that the best solution was for each of us to run as far away from the other as fast as our little legs could carry us.
It was raining and windy that night, and by the time I stormed into the subway, my umbrella had blown inside out. I called a friend to relay my completely unbelievable tale of woe just as an extremely nice gentleman walked over to me and asked what was wrong.
I gave him a thirty-second synopsis, and he invited me out to dinner then and there. And you know what? We had the BEST time! A truly wonderful evening and a true New York moment.
Who says chivalry is dead?
I never did hear from the dentist again, but I assume he spends his days inhaling nitric oxide and mixing up his poor patients. I can hear them now: “But doctor, I just came in for a cleaning and you extracted my four front teeth!”
