Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
Issue link: https://loumag.epubxp.com/i/453014
42 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 2.15 Where's a good frst date spot? "Waterfront Park." "Movies." "What's a date anymore?" "Bowling alley." "Silver Dollar is a good one. Not too loud, not too fancy, but still a fun spot." "Napa River Grill — but that's a serious dating bar." "El Camino. It's loud, and you don't feel the pressure of: 'Everyone's looking at me, and I'm on a frst date.'" "I don't date. I cook dinner for women." "I like the Holy Grale. It's cozy." Worst answer: "Motel." Several folks mentioned the Silver Dollar. Other popular frst-date restaurants: Sapporo, Oishii, Garage Bar, 8Up, Bourbons Bistro, Outback, Tumbleweed, Jack Fry's, Jeff Ruby's. hours. Feel confdent, though you're wearing workout pants and your hair is a dirty braid. He tells you he used to be a state reporter in Illinois before moving back to Indiana; how he hated all the bilkers and quislings. Tells you about a short story he's working on about how warped information becomes after it moves from mouth to ear to mouth. Tell him about your recent visit to eastern Kentucky to see family you hadn't seen for 12 years. Tell him how Papa Jones has dementia from the coal mining days and how the mines are all he can remember. Isn't that ironic? Tell him when Aunt Edwina brushed the tangles out of your hair, you felt like such a loved little girl. You are listened to, understood. You are laughed with when you mock bumpkin. Hook your worm, but do not yet toss it. Flip through a book of collected illustrations by Rolling Stone. Tere's Fiona Apple, Jimi Hendrix. Tere's Willie Nelson, Hunter S. Tompson. Tere's you and your ex in an old photo-booth picture, snuggled close, exposed. You're nonchalant when you see it. Say, "Yeah, that's Dan. We dated awhile ago." Michael says, "I know him. We grew up together. I hear he's married now." It's a shock of cold gust that knocks you breathless. Gulp: "Married?" He notices your uncomfortable squirm and tries to make it better, take it back. Talks about some Rainbow Gathering, hippie-dippy, spiritual union thing, not marriage, per se. All you can manage is: "You mean, all summer I...while he...." After your moment of embarrassing collapse, rise. Realize it's an eye-opener, shut door. Wonder signs. Realize it's 8 p.m. and Te Voice is on. It's your guilty pleasure. Admit this. Te two of you are under a blanket, listening to Blake Shelton's critical wisdom. Don't know if you should, but lean in, whisper in his ear, "Hey, want to hold hands just because we can?" E On the job, it's love all around. You work a bunch of wedding receptions with the Magnolia Photo Booth Co. All these couples getting married, joyous tears in their Champagne glasses. Feel the love, tear up with the best man's speech, when the bride surprises the groom by playing the frst voicemail he left her. (She kept it after all these years!) Tere are so many arms sweet over shoulders, so many hands in hands. Appreciate the love, wonder if you need it. When you accidentally charm the single attendees by saying, "Use a prop for your pic, honey! Go on! Grab you a rubber chicken!" you take the business cards from the brave or creepy, tuck them in a pocket. Forget them until after the spin cycle, creased and faded. E Begin to feel like you're doing this assignment all wrong. Like you're not utilizing all the options. Not pimping hard enough for the people. Guinea pig of emotional coiling, you're letting the lonelies down! During an editorial meeting at the mag, stafers ask if you've tried Match.com (one of the oldest dating engines still revving), FarmersOnly.com (for the literally down to earth), ChristianMingle.com (no, but you consider this as your article title), and, did you hear that correctly? Did someone just say something about Lumbersexuals — big, burly, tree- chopping men? Have you talked to Jef Slyn? He runs a dating group in town. Here, Arielle, here's this book, Looking for Love Trough Ticker Lenses: A Guide to Dating Later in Life, by Louisville native Sharon P.S. Marx. Try this. You fip through, fnd it's encouragement to all the older folks out there: Don't worry, you still got it! Marx says to enroll in classes to increase your chances of fnding a mate with similar interests. You're not on any rosters, but you are involved in the world, doing what you like to do. You've gone to plenty of cultural events doing research for this story. Concerts, poetry readings, art openings. Hell, you even went square dancing! Only man who literally had you of your feet there was silver-ponytailed; he really swung you round and round, partner. Only literally, though. No dizz. E Fill up at the Kroger on Goss Avenue. Cold, shiver until you notice a cutie eyeing you. Eye him, too. You like his style: wool coat, slim khakis. Clean cut. No bumper stickers to indicate what he's like otherwise, but there he is, and there you are, sneaking glances. Start to say something, but what? Banality surfaces: "Hey, so...you getting some gas?" and "Sure is cold out, huh?" You could go barbaric: "Baby, I'll pump your gas!" But, no. You keep glimpsing each other, keep saying nothing. Him as much as you. But, you! You're on deadline! In the wine shop, think of the dinger: "Sure is hot out, ain't it? You sure we're not in Florida?" Would that have worked? Humor best, huh? Humor gone. Now that you're overthinking it, you feel that every opportunity must be your opportunity. Te maybe-soccer player running by, the dude in the bean aisle, and, whoa, who was driving that Volvo? Begin to feel like your brace- faced, 13-year-old chubby self, bopping around Universal Studios one Florida vacation, snifng out boys with your friend Bird. When you arrived an hour late to meet your mother, she somehow knew of your pathetic firts, screamed, "ARIE! Quit running around here like a dog in heat!" Te hyperactive eye considering the boys, all. Tis way of seeing is intoxicating, toxic. Overwhelming trying to hook every fsh in Louisville's sea. Men become fsh, half-fsh, scaly iridescence with the sheen that makes you want to reach, feel the smooth slip slime. But, babe, my girl, you're not brave enough. You're not a strong enough swimmer. Waves push toward the deep dark as you scramble back to shore. E Haymarket Whiskey Bar. New Year's Eve. Te clock ticks toward midnight and you can't fnd shit to kiss. Miss the mark, despite well-glittered eyes scoping. Don't let it faze you; your friends got cheeks, so you kiss those geeks. Ten fnd Aaron. You're grabbing a napkin from the bar because you're snife city and he's buying tequila shots. "And one for you," he says. Hate to say it, but you're hooked because of a TV show. All Christmas break you've binged on Te Killing. (Another detective show; you've considered changing career paths, working homicides.) Aaron talks like your lover, detective You are more honest now than you have been with any stranger. Share yourself unreservedly. Wonder if it's him, or grown you.