The worst part of a first date: taking out headphones

We all know the feeling. Some call it main character syndrome. Others call it “vibing.” Some  pretend like they never do it.  

You walk down the street. Earbuds in, heels striking pavement. You love this song. It’s a gateway  to an ideal alternate reality. Life is a music video and you act accordingly: strut and bask in the  world’s rhythmic beauty. Strangers, storefronts, pigeons, trees.  

You feel no shame when emotions grip your chest. Triumph, sorrow, pure ecstasy. Big,  Hollywood-movie emotions. And you wear them so naturally. Such awesomeness could never be  replicated in the context of a real social interaction.  

It’s the difference between jamming out on the train, daydreaming about what awaits you at a  party and making dull, flavorless small talk with a stranger when you arrive. Where did the  magic go?  

It went away when you took out your headphones.  

Yes, this article is about dating. First dates. And why that moment - the removal of the  headphones - sucks so much.  

Let me set the scene: I’m on my way to a first date. I picked a restaurant I know well, to ensure a  bit of comfort and predictability tonight. The pressure of my earbuds and the vibrations in my  skull soothe me. My mind wanders with the music, but I keep the subject of the wandering away  from the upcoming date. It is a constant war between daydreaming and these words: no  expectations.  

I post up at my designated waiting place near the entrance to the restaurant. I don’t glance  around. Instead I check my phone and text a friend. What date? It might as well not be  happening. No expectations.  

I shift my weight as my brain talks to me:  

Left foot. What if I left now, before he arrives? Right foot. I could say it was an emergency. Left  foot. I don’t have to say anything at all, I owe him nothing. Right foot-

There he is. He gawks up at the name of the restaurant and checks his phone like a tourist in  Times Square. I relish this moment, where I see him but he hasn’t seen me. I am still anonymous.  I could slink away into the crowd. 

There’s something romantic about that, watching a scene in my life happen in real time, as if  from the sidelines. It’s titillating, like an actor waiting in the wings for their entrance, observing  the moment before they exist unfolding onstage. And the music in my head makes this particular  moment sweet, like a quirky scene from a rom-com.  

Yes, this part is fun. But I know what’s coming. My arm tenses, already resisting the inevitable.  I reach for my ear. The distance from my hip to my head seems further than usual. And 

The music stops. I didn’t just pull out an ear bud. I pulled myself out of a place where I’m deeply  understood, deeply safe. Deeply myself.  

He sees me. A clunky greeting ensues. I’m already exhausted. We step inside.  

I am no longer in a rom-com. Instead, I hear the disjointed ambience of a restaurant. The  manager barks at an anxious waitress. Dishes clink nothing like they would in the soundscape of  a tasteful movie. A cluster of twenty-somethings shouts a number of underwhelming things. Just  like me and my friends, I think. But it’s annoying when they do it.  

I focus intensely on these things, anything but him. I’m afraid to look at him too closely. What if  he sees doubt in my face? Sure, it’s always there, but he doesn’t know that. He might take it  personally. It’s funny how paranoid I am about being considerate to this stranger, considering I  almost ditched him 30 seconds ago.  

We sit, and I feel it all now. I’ve been extracted from a rich space of emotional liberation and  pushed onto a bare stage where I must perform. He will too. And we both know it. But this is the  only way to get where we want to go. To tango, in the hopes that soon we can stop.  

I want to skip all the conversational juggling, but I roll up my sleeves and get to work. I catch the  ball when he gives it his best toss, and I hope he will do the same. If either of us misses, the  moment will die. We both have to focus, compromise, and be slightly less than satisfied. Toss  and catch. Toss and catch - until we don’t. That’s intimacy. Intimate conversation is not  exhausting, it’s refreshing. I want to feel understood the first time I say something. I want to  know he hears the whole story in my voice before I finish it, as if he experienced it himself. Not  just the moment I describe, but why it matters in light of every other moment that came before it.  If I allude to a larger feeling or thought, I want him to light up and expand on it. Not because he’s  trying, but because it’s natural for him.  

My favorite definition of love is from the show Fleabag, and it’s beautiful even out of context:  “When you find someone you love, it feels like hope” (shoutout to the hot priest). I don’t expect  to fall in love on a dating app, and certainly not on a first date. I’m here to have fun, not to  fabricate a love story. Still, there is a tiny hopeful version of me sitting shotgun in my mind,  hands folded expectantly. She perks up when I make eye contact with an intriguing stranger in a 

coffee shop. She blushes when someone notices I’m having a bad day or reaches out for no  reason to see how I’m doing. She wants intimacy. It seems so simple, but craving it is a heavy  burden.  

When I love someone, I want to talk to them like I talk to my thoughts. When I miss someone, I  wish they were not only beside me, but experiencing the present moment through my eyes.  

When I crave to be close to someone, it feels like this: trudging through a subway tunnel and  suppressing a silent, hollow wish that they would experience it too. The dirty low light, the  memory evoked by the song I’m listening to, the way my legs spring from concrete, early winter  chill fighting its way through my favorite jacket, and the way that jacket’s stiff fabric grips my  body like an awkward hug from an old friend. I want them to hear the tiny joke I tell myself as I  watch the other passengers waddle to work. Feel the chuckle I suppress.  

I won’t find that tonight. Not with this guy. It doesn’t matter how attractive, smart, or funny he  is. There’s no hope in my heart. I won’t let him know that. I flash a warm smile and laugh at his  joke.  

The waiter also grins a little too wide and asks if we liked the food, her subtext being that we  should get the hell out.  

We pay and stand. This is my least favorite part, the awkward conversational jumble as we both  cryptically assess the next move. Personally, I would be fine with going our separate ways now.  But to avoid the risk of seeming rude, I let him lead. Again, my behavior is laughably polite  considering I’ll likely ghost him later.  

He walks me home. I don’t invite him up.  

The first thing I do when I’m back inside my building? I put my headphones back in. I find a  reflective playlist and return to myself. Here in my imagination, my sorrow is not only welcome  company, it fits the present moment like a glove. It’s beautiful.  

Maybe that’s why every time I visit home, I try to show my parents new songs I love. They  always nod politely and offer an observation along the lines of “wow that’s catchy!” before  we’ve even reached the first chorus. Of course I want them to like it. But what I really want is for  them to go silent and live in the song with me. More importantly, I want them to feel the way I  feel when I hear it. I want them to share in the experience of my innermost thoughts and  emotions.  

I want to be close. 

Intimacy is such an elusive thing. I’ve never seen it coming, it always sneaks up on me. One  time, a silent meeting of eyes over a game of Catan while everyone else in the room screamed at  one another. Another time, over guitar strings. Once, I was just a little too drunk.  

Sometimes it lasts, sometimes not. But without fail, that first moment I recognize it, I feel myself  glow. From time to time, I miss that feeling. On dull days, or in the middle of a dull week, I  grasp at straws to feel it again. I search for it on television or in the eyes of passing strangers.  These efforts are hollow. I know the feeling will only show up where I least expect it to. And its  entrance will be more grand and artful than anything I could have planned. It always is.  

So I’ll stop looking. Intimacy is like a cat. If you try too hard to pet it, it’ll hide under the bed (or  something like that). The point is, it chooses the timing. It shows up on its own terms.  

I welcome the odd first dates. I’ll smile and laugh with strangers. I’ll toy with youth and  uncertainty. I’ll lean into bad days instead of distracting myself from them. If nothing else, I’m  overjoyed and grateful that I still have hope. And one day, that hope might emerge in the form of  love.  

For now, I have found peace between my headphones.