True Stories: My Rudest Date

After years of dating square-jawed romantics, I met my match in a crude Englishman.

By Judy Batalion

Given the recent international mania surrounding the royal wedding, women might be forgiven for thinking that every British man is an enchanting, sandy-haired aristocrat. But I spent my twenties as a single Jewish comic living in London, and I can confirm that dating in England is a lot uglier on the ground. Despite our images of bumbling and witty Hughs, the men are neither all princes nor all charming.

The first thing I thought when I saw Jon across the crowded British pub was, "What a Jew." He was short and bald. The matchmaker for this blind date had been right about him being exceptionally hirsute. I hadn't meant to be set up; I'd learnt that in the U.K. it was best to play non-desperate. But celebrating my thirtieth birthday, I couldn't resist complaining about my recent forays with British men who ran down the street away from me in the middle of dates, or emailed just to tell me how much they didn't like me.

After years of dating, I was exhausted and needed help. I had spent my twenties reading The Rules and watching Sex and the City religiously, hungry for romantic advice. (Arguably, I deserved whatever trouble I got.) Alas, the rules in the U.K. were of a different order — a majestic one established at birth. England functioned on a rigid system of social behavior involving indirect conversation and privacy. (The English show affection by politely ignoring you.) I wondered constantly how a nerdy, self-sufficient, global woman could find love in this post-matchmaker, post-feminist world. Finally, I'd expressed this storm of angst to a friend, saying, "Don't you know any nice single Jewish guys?" 

"Well, there's one," he said. "But I should warn you — he's very hairy."

"Whatever," I'd answered, "So am I." Hair was the least of my worries.

Until now, in the bar, as I, fashionably late in a pink peat-coat and retro glasses, approached the table where Chewbacca was waiting.

"You look like you said you did on the phone. A fabulous Anne Frank." Jon laughed snarkily. "That was pretty obnoxious."

"Thanks," I responded, annoyed that I had bothered shaving my legs.

"And you don't look a day over thirty-two," he said. I was thirty. It was sparks from the start.

My turn: "What do you do? What's your passion? Your dream?" I wouldn't normally have launched in like this (in England, no less), but there was no time to waste. He had booked us tickets to a show that was about to begin, and apparently, I was aging rapidly.

"I don't have ambition," he said. Great, I thought. A real winner. Then I learned that the show he had planned to woo me with was a ukulele concert. We made our way to the venue upstairs from the bar. He started panicking. "Since you were so late, we might not get seats."

"Relax," I said, plunking myself down on the floor. I could already tell this was a wasted evening. There was no point maintaining pretenses. Forget lady-like leg-crossings. Forget the list of pre-planned conversation topics and selection of witty anecdotes demonstrating savvy-yet-vulnerable sides of myself. Forget breath mints. This date was un-English, unanything.

"I'm not used to being in the audience," I said, surprisingly insufferable. "I perform."

"Wow, that's odious," he said.

"Thanks." What was this — a date or a fight?

Between sets, he leaned into me. "You're brutal, you're honest, you say what you mean. You're so not British."

"Yeah," I answered, "I thought the white teeth gave it away."

"What are you looking for in relationships?" he asked.

"Here's my policy," I said, speaking curtly over the ukuleles like I never spoke to anyone. "One stray and you're out. I don't forgive infidelity. Ever." Why would I say that? I surprised myself with my unfeminine frankness.

"So you know what you want," he said, smirking.

"You lack ambition, and don't." I smirked back.

"Fair enough."