Thank God I Used to Give a Shit About Politics

Perhaps I should have raised an eyebrow when he told me in a private message through the dating website that he and his closest circle of friends belonged to a Mensa group. (But I *like* smart guys, I told myself.)

Perhaps I should have red-flagged his comment about coming clean about the extra weight he had put on in the last year, but was juice-fasting to take off again. (But I've been overweight before, so I've been there.)

Perhaps I should have been wary of his comment that he is not the hiking/camping/outdoorsy type. (But his profile is hilarious, so I can go camping and hiking with my friends.)

This is how I found myself on a first date with a large, pear-shaped man with a gentle, avuncular presence, and pants hiked up almost to his armpits. "Mensa" and I had written progressively longer private messages back and forth over the course of a week. He was funny and smart, an irresistible combination that can charm the pants right off me. Thus, feeling as if we knew each other a little bit already, we dispensed with the typical first date at a coffee place, and decided to have dinner and then check out a rockabilly band afterward.

The first 15 minutes of our date was quite strained, as we struggled to find the easy, natural rhythm of conversation that we had had in our written exchanges. Turning to politics out of desperation, Mensa, who moderates a political blog for said circle of friends, began to talk about the Presidential election. Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! Thank god I used to give a shit about politics, or else I wouldn't have had a thing to say to him.

Even though I've taken 2012 off from giving a shit about politics, I had 29 years worth of political knowledge (well, mostly outrage) that I was able to tap into to spark a passionate hour-long discussion about American politics. About 45 minutes into it, Mensa paused, gave me a long wistful look, and gushed, "Wow. You know a lot about politics. I only know one other woman who knows that much about politics and likes to talk about it."

F*CK! I was just trying to get through this "date" with minimal awkwardness, not make the guy go ga-ga over me.  It is at this point in the conversation, when I frantically start looking back at all the things I should NOT have said to him.

When I used the word "verisimilitude" in conversation, I might as well have been nibbling on Mensa's earlobe. When I brought up M3 and why has the government suspiciously stopped publishing those figures, I might as well have been telling him to undress me. And when I explained the reason why Howard Dean is persona non grata in the Obama administration (short answer: Rahm Emanuel hates his guts), I might as well have been giving Mensa a topless lap dance.

Fortunately, it was time to go see that rockabilly band across the street, so my unknowing "flirtatious sweet nothings" about M3, the Federal Reserve, and Rahm came to an abrupt, but natural, halt. The rockabilly band was really great, and Mensa and I talked about other things (our mothers, my divorce). And I can honestly say I had a good time, despite my initial panic. At the end of the evening, I told Mensa he was a great guy, just not my type of great guy. And I watched him slowly shuffle his way back to his car, feeling just a little bit shitty for having physical attraction count so heavily as a deal-breaker for me.