Signe Likes Privacy

August 11, 2008

Before Signe met up with Deborah and me, she was at the gym, and during her workout, was watching the women's Olympic volleyball competition on the gym TV.

When she heard one of the announcers say, "A sweaty ball kept her from making contact.” She thought it was hilarious and texted it to her friend, someone she thought would get a kick out of it. By the time we'd finished brunch, however, Signe still hadn't heard a reply.

"I can't believe it," she said. "That is totally the kind of thing she would like."

"Maybe she's too busy laughing," I said.

This led to a conversation about texting in general. I've said it before: Signe likes to text. But even she has her limits. As evidenced by the story she told about a stalker she recently had. A semi-pseudo-stalker, that is. Although none of us were sure his behavior warranted the term, it was fun to call him a stalker, anyway. Mostly, he's just a clueless dude.

Been there.

Bored one night, Signe began poking around an online dating site that she'd abandoned long ago. She ran into someone she used to talk to online, but never met. "Does this mean you're single?" he wanted to know.

"Well, yeah, I guess, but I'm not sure I'm looking to start dating again," she said.

Regardless, he was eager to meet, and she was bored enough to relent, inviting him to her birthday party— a loose and casual affair at McCarren pool, surrounded by dozens of friends and hundreds of strangers. He arrived early, armed with a present. I'm not sure she told us what it was, but I don't think it was anything too fancy.

In the course of the night, he asked her on a real date, and she was drunk enough to say, Okay.

A rather unromantic date from the sound of it. No googly eyes, no kissing, no deep discussion of dreams and desires. No chemistry, no spark. She thought it fairly obvious she wasn't feeling it and didn't see a need to lay it on the line.

When Signe casually mentioned to him that her mother was coming to town, the guy, who happens to work at a popular restaurant, offered to get them reservations. A few days later, they traded more text messages and arranged the details.

"What have you told your mother about me?" he asked.

"Um. Nothing," she said.

They'd only been on one lackluster date, after all.

"Because I'll really want to kiss you when I see you," he said.

"There will be no kissing."

"On the cheek?"

"No."

Rather than lead the guy on or leave any doubt, she came out and told him how she felt. Or rather, how she didn't.

"Oh well, can we still be friends?" he asked. "Can we still talk?"

"Um. I guess so, sure, we can be friends."

He must not have had many others, because, exploiting that tiny window of opportunity, he began sending Signe text messages several times a day. Text messages and more text messages, pausing now and then to send e-mails instead.

"That's pretty stalker-ish, don't you think?" she said.

"Yeah," Deborah nodded, "I'd say so."

"Yeah," I said. "So what do you think? How long before you sleep with him?"

*Correction

Rather than rewrite the post, I'll tell you here that, in Signe's defense (although I don't think she needs defending), the "What have you told your mother about us?" question actually came before the first date. Which is actually much funnier, and I thought that's what Signe told us, but as I sat trying to remember the story, I said to myself, "No way. I must be remembering that wrong," and asked Deborah how she remembered it. We both scrunched our faces for a minute trying to decide, and went with our best guess.

So much for fact-checking.