Until I Get Married ®

The last time I flew to Little Rock, Arkansas, it was to be a pallbearer for Enoch “Trey” Tims III. He is the man you see pictured far left. He was buried on February 6, 2010.

Today, I board a plane to Little Rock, Arkansas where I will be a groomsman for Harold “Jhirmack” Eichelberger. He is the man you see pictured in the middle. He is getting married on Saturday.

In August, 2000, I met both these men for the first time at Howard University. We stayed in Drew Hall, the mandated freshman boys-only dorm on campus. Harold moved into the dorm room directly across the hall from me, Trey was in the dorm room right next door. As evidenced by the photo, the three of us would go onto graduate together, and along the way become like brothers not only with each other, but a handful of other men who were pallbearers at Trey’s funeral, who will be groomsmen at Harold’s wedding.

Me, Jhirmack, Trey, Harold, Cliff, Weaf, Antijuan, Hank, Hakim, Zach, and Coop, have done our best to stay close post-college. These days many of us live far apart from one another, some across states, others across oceans. Some of us are in touch with specific people more than others, but we have never forgotten how close we all once were. We still remember the unspoken promises we made that when life gets to be the most real for one of us, as many of us as possible will form together.

I don’t know if it was a funeral or at a wedding where I first heard the saying that it is those two occasions that bring the most amount of people together. But I have learned it’s true in ways that are both sad and joyous.

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In nine days, one of my best friends, Harold, will be getting married to Christina. Long time readers know their story, and for those who don’t, you can read about it here.

In addition to being one of the groomsmen, I was also asked by the couple if I could do the honor of delivering the reading. Here is what they asked me to read:

The Invitation
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithlessand therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day,and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Now I’m not nervous about reading out loud or in front of a bunch of people. I was one of those kids who was always volunteering to read in class because, frankly, I’m damn good at reading. I’m also not afraid of public speaking, especially at emotional ceremonies like this. When our friend Trey was killed in a car accident in 2010, I spoke at his funeral, and many of the same people who were there, will be here at Harold’s wedding, so there will be many familiar faces.

There is nothing for me to worry about, I know I’ll be fine, but I want to make this reading great for my friends. Even though I’m not shy, I don’t know if I’m the most gifted public speaker, so I have some questions I’d like you all to answer.

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On the questionnaire I give to all my Meet Market applicants, there is one question I immediately skip to upon receiving it.

47. Are race, religion or age important factors regarding who you date? (This won’t be published, but is important so we know who you’re looking for)

Of all the answers I look at on the questionnaire, this is the most important because it’s the most specific. The person’s answer helps me figure out how to group them.

A lot of answers focus on age; they give me a range they either want or don’t want. Every now and then, their response is religion-specific; some will say they don’t want someone who is too religious, or they’d like someone who is the same religion as them. Then there’s race, which is always interesting.

Some people will say they’ve never dated outside of their race, which makes me have to clarify with them, Does that mean you want to keep it that way? Others will be more blunt and say they prefer not to date anyone of a specific race or outside of their own race. The answers never bother me. The way I see it, the more honest they are, the easier my job.

The most problematic answer is the one I probably get the most: Race doesn’t matter.

People like to make a point of saying that, and I assume they’re telling the truth, but how truthful is that truth is the question I find myself asking whenever I get this response.

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There’s nothing like a good bad date story. The best ones are so good they become a part of someone else’s storybook collection. We’re glad it didn’t happen to us but we’re also jealous we don’t have a story just as good to tell so we crib it, and tell that story to other people who don’t know you.

I don’t have a bad date story to share myself, which is weird. Some would say I’m lucky to be able to say such a thing, but I feel like I’ve missed out on some rights of passage only the realest of single adults have been through. I could talk about the dates I’ve been on where I ended up not going home with the girl. There’s also the times I foolishly spent more than I can afford wining and dining a first date, only to never get a return on my investment, not even in the form of a second date. Both of those situations have happened to me more times than I care to admit, but not to the fault of the women involved. I either had bloated expectations, assuming a woman would be so smitten with me, a perfect stranger, that she would be willing to take her clothes off just a couple hours after learning my basic information. Or, I didn’t bother devising a plane, thus letting her pick the restaurant or the activity, and ended up secretly checking my balance on my phone while she went to use the restroom.

So no, I’ve never been on the receiving end of a bad date; never can talk about the time I was out with a girl at the movies and everything was going so well until a child I didn’t know about ran up to her, grabbed her leg, and started screaming, “Mommy,” with a man much bigger than me following behind said child, talking about, “Where have you been and who is this guy you’re with?”

The worst I can say about any date I’ve been on is they’ve either been boring or anti-climatic. Bad though? No story here, but every time I hear a woman telling me about some guy who failed on a date in spectacular fashion, I wonder, is one of the many women I’ve been out on a date with telling a similar story about me and I just don’t know it?

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Before I run this list, a disclaimer for my long time readers:

I know I have been posting about job-related things a lot more recently, but I don’t want you to think this is what the blog is going to be about on a regular basis. I am just trying to flip the following I have here into a following over at the 9-to-5. After all, this blog is part of the reason I was hired to handle the blind date column at The New York Post.

Now that I got that out of the way, I want to share with everyone a comprehensive list of all the places where I’ve sent my dates for the column. As I have explained time and time again, these dates are all FREE. Most of them consist of a nice dinner, and of course, the participants are required to tip their service, but outside of that one expense, the meal and their drinks are on the house.

While the most challenging part of my job remains finding people to participate in Meet Market (you can sign up here or email me at jcummings@nypost.com), the other challenge is figuring out where to send people.

Dinner is the quickest and easiest solution, because who doesn’t like free food? All I need to do is find a good restaurant that I think both people would enjoy. For those who have seen the questionnaire I give to each of the participants, there’s a couple of questions about their favorite food and food allergies, so I usually use those to help me get a better idea of where to send them. For instance, on the list there is a restaurant called Casa Nonna. That place was chosen because they have a gluten-free menu, and the woman who was going on the date was allergic to gluten. If people are vegetarians or don’t eat meat, I would never send them to a steakhouse either, so I have to pay attention.

Then there are a couple of activity dates, which are always my preference to set up. Whether it’s cocktails while learning how to paint at Paint Nite NYC or a Brooklyn Nets game, activity dates work well because they are a more casual way for two strangers to meet for the first time. Unfortunately, they’re not always as great of an idea in real life as they are in my head. The two people I set up on the cooking class date at Sur La Table loved their experience, but had to pay close attention during the class so they really weren’t able to get to know each other as much.

People always ask me if I’ve successfully made matches out of the dates I set up. Considering I started this job on June 4, 2012, of course there have been some people who went out on second and third dates, but that’s their call not mine. What I’m more concerned about is setting up two strangers to have a good night, to make some good memories for both of them. THAT is my, and I must say I’ve gotten pretty good at it.

Here is the list of dates, in no particular order. For more information click on the name of each restaurant to be taken to their website. Also, for non-dinner dates, I’ve offered a description of the date.

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I know it’s been a couple of weeks since my last post. Like most lulls in my blogging, the intent is never to stay away for as long as I’m gone. Trust me, if I could get back into 2009-2010 blog shape, where I was writing five days a week, I would.

But this time, part of my absence was to let the last blog post I wrote breathe a little bit. For those who remember, I introduced everyone to Dan, a single, 36-year-old man who reached out to me to participate in my blind date column for the New York Post. You can click here if you want to read the details of my first encounter with Dan, but most of you know why he is a special case. When we met, he admitted to me he has a rather extreme case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and he has Aspergers syndrome.

Since that post, many readers have asked me if I have found Dan a date, and unfortunately I have not. I can point to his condition and say that’s why I’ve had no luck, but in Dan’s defense, finding people for this column is never easy. And once I have people sign up, getting them into the column can still be difficult. There are some people in my files who haven’t been out on a date and signed up months ago. The logistics of how this section work make no sense, and my job is to make them make sense so people can open up their Sunday edition of the New York Post and read Meet Market.

One reason I probably haven’t had any luck with finding women who are willing to give Meet Market a shot as a potential date for Dan is because I realized, even with his mental conditions, people still care how he looks. You can tell me that doesn’t matter, but I’ve worked at this job long enough to know, people may not be able to judge a book by a cover, but a nice cover makes people pick up the book.

With Dan’s permission I have posted the picture you see of him below. This is one of the pictures he took when he came to the Post offices. As you can see, he’s a reasonably handsome man. In the last post I described him as a cross between Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump and Adam Levine. Was I right or was I right? For the ladies who are like, “Yeah, but how tall is he?” He’s 5’11. For the ladies who think, “Yeah but look at the way he’s dressed.” I say, look at the way you’re dressed.

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Last week, I received an email at work about my Meet Market column from a man named Dan. Here is what he sent me:

I am a reader of The New York Post and enjoy your Meet Market page. I noticed it says I can email you if I would be interested in winning a date. I would be interested in participating in this and would enjoy the opportunity of meeting a woman with your help. Kindly let me know how to proceed. Thank you.

I get this type of email from readers about once or twice a week, usually on Mondays, the day after the column has appeared in the paper. They always make me happier because they make my job easier; one more person for the column, one less person I have to coerce into participating.

I asked Dan if he was over 21 and lived in either NYC or the immediate area outside of NYC, as I do all people who reach out with interest. He replied he was 36-years-old and lived in Long Island. So I told him to fill out the questionnaire and to come in as soon as he could for the picture he has to take for the column. He said he would get started on the questionnaire and could come in the next day for the photo.

Dan arrived at the time he said he would, and I greeted him downstairs to take him up to our studio.

Most of the people who sign up for Meet Market reach out through through email, so I meet them for the first time in person at that downstairs greeting. I never know what they look like or how they are going to be. Usually they are excited to take their photo, shy or busy and want to get it over with.

Dan was none of these things. I could tell he was different than anyone else I met.

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In a little less than two months, I will be a groomsman at the wedding of a friend I call a brother. Very recently, another one of my close friends (from the same group of men who will be at the aforementioned) got down on his knee to pop the question.

My joy for both of them – instant and genuine – ranks up there with the best feelings I ever had. Granted, when my sister told me she was having a baby, I cried; when my mother told me my step-dad proposed to her, I couldn’t stop smiling for days; and when the woman who has been like a sister to me for 13 years, said she was getting married, I was hi-fiving the air all around me. But the happiness I feel for these men is slightly different. Not necessarily greater, but a seismic shift within my spirit for sure.

Some men develop such a close bond with our boys, that we become oddly dependent on them. I say oddly because sure I may not be as close as I was to some of them when we were all living on campus with one another, but no matter how far they are from me, I expect them to be around always. Not to take this post in a sad direction, but it’s worth noting: When my friend in April gets married, the ring bearer will be the nephew of our friend Trey, who was tragically killed in a car accident in 2011.

That’s how tight we are with each other.

With my friends, we are just as competitive with each other as we are supportive. But one race none of us ever wanted to win was the race down the aisle. The first of our crew was married back in 2007 (or maybe 2006), we all wished him a hearty congrats, and I thought, “Better him than me!” But I was still in my 20s, a decade that I still believe is best spent having sex with all the wrong people

Now I’m in my 30s and two of my friends have put rings on it. Not only am I wise enough to not think they’re crazy, I’m man enough to admit, they’re winning a race I’m interested in finishing myself.

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As my grandmother took her seat at the table to meet my mother and I for breakfast, she asked me, “So do you have a girlfriend?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Good,” she said with a nod of approval. “They’re too expensive.”

(Ladies and gentlemen, my grandmother, hater of the year for as long as I can remember.)

The exchange above wasn’t recent. It was actually a few years ago, at a time when I was actively dating. I laughed at her remark, but it always stuck with me in the sense that she was right. Girlfriends are expensive, and though some may read her comment as heartless, I prefer to look at it as a heartfelt, but conservative message. I doubt she would tell my sister boyfriends are expensive because my grandmother is a woman of tradition who believes it’s a man’s responsibility to support his woman (even though she owned a restaurant for years to much success entirely on her own). And she knew I wasn’t in a position to be able to do that.

I have thought about my grandmother’s comment a lot these days. Single and in pursuit of control over my finances, one expense I’m looking at and thinking about constantly is the dating expense. The evaluation is also compounded with a conversation I had with my ex as she was breaking up with me.

She said, “I don’t think you should date anybody, at all, until you get your money under control.”

Foolishly I asked her if she was going to date other people. She didn’t hesitate, “If someone asks me out on a date, I’m not going to say no.”

Who can blame her? Any of us lucky enough to get an invitation to accompany someone on a night out would say yes, unless they had better things to do.At least, most women would, and I think we can all agree, for men like myself, dating is a little different.

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Your mind is going crazy, and it’s only 8: 17 PM. It’s way too early to go to bed, and unfortunately it’s a night where nothing on television is entertaining enough to quiet the inner voices. So you start texting her, telling her she has to get her stuff from you, asking the same questions you’ve already asked using a different combination of words. You’re right there, at the edge of a free fall into a pit of things you might regret saying.

Then your dad calls. You have to pick up, because usually you two talk on Sundays. Tonight is not a Sunday, so it could be an emergency. Besides, perhaps this is a sign to back away from that edge from which you were looking down. You stare at the number, thinking, Do I pickup? Do I let it go to voicemail?

“Hi, Dad.”

“Oh, hey,” he says.

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