A Real Story

I’m an analyst by trade, so of course I kept a spreadsheet. Columns for venue, conversation topics, whether he asked a follow-up question, whether I felt anything below my collarbone. Forty-seven rows by the time I made myself stop and actually read it. Forty-one of those dates happened at the same three bars near my apartment in Logan Square, all loud enough that I spent half the night saying ‘sorry, what?’ The other six I barely remember, which is its own kind of answer.

What the spreadsheet showed me wasn’t that Chicago is full of bad guys. It showed that I picked the same loud, dim, drink-forward setup every single time because it let me stay a little detached, a little performative, a little safe from actually being seen. Nobody bombs at a bar the way you bomb on a walk where there’s nothing to hide behind but conversation. I’d been treating first dates like structured interviews I could grade and move on from, and structuring them so I never had to risk much.

The date that finally worked was date 48, which I didn’t even log until after. He suggested the lakefront path instead of a bar because his last relationship ended over ‘always meeting somewhere loud,’ his words. We walked for two hours, got mediocre hot dogs, and I laughed so hard at one point I had to stop walking. No spreadsheet entry, because for once I wasn’t grading anything.

We’ve been together fourteen months now. I still think about that spreadsheet sometimes, mostly as a reminder that the venue you keep choosing says more about what you’re avoiding than what you’re looking for.