Extraordinary Ordinary
I have been on many, many dates, including an abundance of first and only dates. I thought I had experienced most first date repertoires—coffee dates and dinner dates, exciting dates and boring dates, dates to the theater and dates to the comedy club, dates that led to relationships and dates that came to screeching halts midway. I’d been on first dates with sixty dollar steaks and first dates with six dollar burgers. I’d been on first dates with lawyers and professors and police officers and firefighters. I’d even been on first dates with married people, unbeknownst to me, of course.
On one particularly memorable date at a high-end restaurant, the wife of someone I dated a handful of times a few months earlier called and left an understandably hostile message. I had been expecting an important call, so when I saw the voicemail icon, just as the main course was served, I listened to the recording. Disconnecting from the call, I immediately burst into tears, crying to my startled current date about the newly acquired information that not only did this previous date have a wife, but a newborn baby. Our server rushed to the table to ask if everything was all right, at which point my date deadpanned, “She really doesn’t like her osso buco,” which made me laugh before I drained my nearly full wine glass and asked the waiter for another while I sought out the ladies’ room. That evening’s date and I remain friends a decade later.
That date, like most of my dates, stemmed from a “match,” or some similar indication of mutual interest on one of the established online dating sites, eHarmony or Match.com, forebearers of the myriad niche dating sites whose advertisements now clutter the internet. My first foray into online dating had been forced by a combination of my mother’s and sister’s recent suggestions to “give it a try,” and an uneventful and lonely holiday weekend in early 2009. By 2014, if online dating operated like a law firm, I’d have been a managing partner. And, if only all those dating hours had been billable, I’d be retired at the beach. Unfortunately, all of my gains were of the harshest nature—experience. However, this meant that, in addition to being called upon to write dating profiles for friends, I became efficient at weeding through the “likes,” “winks,” waves,” and messages I received and cutting to the chase when reading a profile that piqued my interest. Efficiency was important, as it maximized the speed at which an actual first date would take place. Because no matter how expected or repetitive the first dates might seem, those interactions were the only way to truly gauge any real attraction or compatibility, no matter how many mutual boxes had been checked. And finally, a unique first date occurred, taking place entirely outside and during which no money was spent.
In the spring of 2014, the profile for “Jason M.” definitely piqued my interest, despite the photograph showing him to be bearded. My ex-husband had worn a beard and, as a result, I was not a huge fan of facial hair. As a psychologist, I may have been unconsciously concerned it hid something. However, “Jason M.” looked quite handsome and it was a nicely groomed beard (not the long “Duck Dynasty” type of beard coming into fashion then). Furthermore, there was an absence of shirtless selfies or pictures of expensive toys/cars among his handful of photographs, both of which usually resulted in me moving on. Even better, his summary was entirely literate and devoid of any clichéd “Ask me anything you want to know” lines of bullshit that may as well have said, “I’m too lazy to write anything, but you’d be lucky to date me.” He was slightly younger than I, something else I usually avoided, and a student at the university at which I’d taught as an adjunct for several years, working on his bachelor’s degree. My PhD sometimes irritated men without terminal degrees, and even a few who had their own, but who were used to being centerstage during dating conversation, with their professional accolades and accomplishments. As I’d come to suspect during our initial conversations, and confirm on our first date, I did not need to have this concern with Jason.
Strangely, for me, I do not remember many details about the first brief emails and subsequent longer phone calls between Jason and me. I’m usually the unofficial recordkeeper of significant dates and recollected anecdotes. Much later, I’ll feel guilt and sorrow over how little minutiae I retained. Reflecting on it now, however, I think it is evidence of how natural even the early conversations were, how easily Jason and I interacted with each other. I’m not even positive what day or even what month our first date took place. It was either in late April or early May, which made it easy to accept his suggestion of meeting for a walk in the nearby university arboretum late one afternoon.
It turned out Jason worked nights in a warehouse while going to school full time during the day to finish his undergraduate degree in wildlife management on the GI Bill. I had recently resigned from my position as an assistant professor at a nearby small, liberal arts college, so my flexible schedule was even more so, meaning our first date took place in the middle of the week instead of the weekend, making it even more out of the ordinary. We met around three or four o’clock, when it was warmest in Kentucky’s early spring, and because Jason’s overnight shift started across town an hour or two later. I do not recall what I was wearing. I’m sure it was something I carefully selected to be casual, comfortable, and cute, possibly a pair of capris and a favorite, feminine top. Jason wore what I later came to know as his unofficial uniform for work. Over the course of his ten-hour shift, he’d often walk over ten miles and lift thousands of pounds of inventory. With so much activity, he always wore old cargo shorts, no matter what the season, either black, khaki, olive drab, or forest camouflage. In all but the coldest winter months, he wore a tank top, also in neutral or forest shades. When the temperature dipped below freezing, he’d switch to a short-sleeved T-shirt, plain or old Army training shirt, or sometimes one featuring the hair and metal bands of our youth, now referred to as “classic rock,”—Aerosmith, AC/DC, Def Leppard.
I never met anyone, before or since, who knew so much about trees and plants, birds and animals, or who could so comfortably include that knowledge in conversations. We talked about all kinds of things on that first walk, but sprinkled throughout our discussions were moments when Jason would identify a tree or look more closely at a plant and comment upon it or draw my attention to a type of bird he saw nearby. I learned not all small, nondescript birds are sparrows; there are starlings and finches and doves and something called a “titmouse,” which I would have sworn was a type of rodent prior to our outing. One of the gifts for which I am most grateful to Jason is the appreciation for the trees and the birds he gave me, a respect and an admiration for everyday parts of nature. They had lain dormant under my lack of experience in the outdoors and an aversion to spending much time outside. Both were likely due in equal parts to a life spent in college towns and large cities where nature was something you went to, meaning it required a special trip. and my intense allergies to most living things that are green.
Despite this, the arboretum was one of my favorite places in Lexington, and I had been there several times to walk on my own or with a friend. It was accessible and safe, with a paved path looping around in a figure eight. That familiarity probably helped to make Jason’s and my first date the most easygoing and least anxiety-provoking first date I’d ever had, but mostly I think it was Jason who made it that way. As I’d learn, on that date and subsequent ones, with Jason, what you saw was what you got, and he said what he meant. There was no artifice, no pretense, no agenda. He was always unapologetically himself, something which I’ve yet to attain. If you liked him, fine, and, if not, that was also fine. By this point in his life, Jason did not need others’ admiration or affirmation. If he did like you, you knew it, because when he disliked someone, he knew not to waste his energy on them. A lot of people mistook this for arrogance. It wasn’t. It was simply unvarnished—beautiful in its own way, like a weathered piece of driftwood—but which didn’t fit in particularly well among the glossy veneers people typically show, especially in the age of social media that Jason completely eschewed. He had no reason to post about his service in the United States Army, his proficiency in various martial arts, or his interest in the art of Van Gogh or the writings of Ernest Hemingway.
His lack of façade made it easy to get to know him on our first date, although I obviously came to know him much better in the subsequent time we spent together. He was loyal, a quality I consider to be one of my best, but one that I’ve struggled to find in others. Jason spoke of childhood friends he thought of and referred to as “brothers.” Despite growing up in an abusive home within a highly dysfunctional family, Jason had made his own family out of these “brothers” and a very few relatives to whom he was close, particularly his grandfather.
Jason was a man who could easily fell a tree and split it into firewood, but just as easily coax a fallen baby bird onto a stick to return it to its nest. While I had seen pictures of him prior to meeting, Jason was a man not keen on photographs and therefore even better looking in person. I noticed his impressive physique as soon as we met, appreciating his broad chest and shoulders and muscular arms, my preference when it comes to male anatomy. I already thought of him as hypermasculine, in a good way, interested and skilled in traditionally male hobbies and occupations; carpentry and woodworking, martial arts and physical fitness, construction and the military, along with camping, bushcraft, and all things outdoors. But, he also had a big heart and he was comfortable showing it. He enjoyed hunting occasionally, but willingly spoiled household pets. As his body indicated, Jason was exceedingly strong. Within a few weeks of our first date, I’d routinely seen him working out by grasping two fifty-pound kettle bells in his large hands. I’d also noticed the enormity of his hands as soon as we met, given that he extended one for me to shake as soon as I walked up to him. While clearly strong and capable, they could still offer a light touch, even a gentle one.
He didn’t hold my hand on that first date. We walked companionably, side by side, chatting about our lives in between his observations of our environment and my increasing attention to it. If not for his work schedule, I think we would have walked a far greater distance, continuing to talk without any awkwardness, probably until my legs gave out, which would be long before his. That day, we had only the one hour or so to meander through the arboretum. Fortunately, it turned out to be the first of many such hours, although ultimately still not enough.
Jason’s gift of showing me the birds and the trees and how to appreciate them was indeed great, but it was not his greatest gift to me. For the simple, ordinary outing of our first date, the date notable for being entirely outdoors and without expense, is made extraordinary in another way as well. It was the first date with the man who would give me a child, my only one, a beautiful son. It was the first date with a man who we lost not quite two years later to an undiagnosed brain injury from his service in combat. It was the first date with a man whose ashes now rest around several of the same flowers and trees we saw together that day in the arboretum, and whose son I now take to play among the abundance of life there.
-Kate Spencer
Kate Spencer is a retired psychologist and college professor, who recently embarked on a long-delayed adventure as a freelance writer. She has publications as an academic and poet and began working on her first book, a memoir, last year. She lives in Louisville with her husband, son, and too many pets.