The ‘Fitting’ Explained

(a recap for those of you just tuning in…) 

“A fitting? Are we talking about your bridesmaid’s dress again?” Confusion and warm wine—tasting of jam, minus the childhood satisfaction—were my companions after a day of literary solitude in the apartment. PAGING: Algonquin round table. PAGING: New York intelligentsia. Where are you? 

“Not a dress, a guy—my new guy. We’re discussing my new guy,” she said, looking exasperated. 

“So what’s a ‘fitting’?” 

“You know…” she said, peering into the great jammy depths of her cheap Australian import. 

The wide eyes and pursed lips meant that she was either searching her liquid crystal ball for a modicum of restraint or about to start in on her favorite subject—sex.

“The guy in the white shirt at the table wants you to have this,” the waitress interrupted, slamming down a Corona and lime on the table in front of me, effectively ‘singling out’ about 17 men in my direct vicinity. It didn’t matter—the cool carbonation was a godsend. I needed to get to the bottom of this “fitting” phenomenon without drowning my confusion in buckets of warm Shiraz.

“So is this a Long Island thing or something that is sweeping the nation?” I queried, leaning back in the high metal chair, hoping my sarcasm would inspire a concise reply.

“Where have you been? No, this doesn’t have to do with the Island—this is about dating in the city and making sure that everything is… no one wants their ‘number’ to go up so… there are things that gotta be…”

“Come on girl, you can do it, you can do it…” My God, what was I doing? Eliciting poop from a puppy?

“You’re going to make me explain it?” she said downing the last of the wine. “First date, dinner. Second date dinner, half a dozen cocktails and a ‘fitting.’ Third date, back to his apartment. You don’t let the latter happen if the former isn’t juuuuust right.”

Visions of Goldilocks and a different kind of porridge—“pourage”—crept into my mind. Is this what had happened during the year that I had been off the Manhattan meat market cum dating scene?

“He can’t be too big because that’s just no fun. Too small and it’s pointless—hello, I gotta ‘Rabbit’ in my bedside table! Somewhere in between is what we’re all looking for. And why wait too long to find out? I for one don’t want to fall in love with a gherkin—”

Slam. Another Corona and another waitress with an apologetic look on her face. “He told me to keep ‘em coming ‘til—”

“Until I’ve had approximately six beers, nothing is too hot or too cold,” I said, veins popping, face reddening, “and I want some ‘pourage’— that side of a gherkin, this side of seedless cucumber?”

“What? The guy says he knows you from the gym.”

Right. Too many mixed metaphors for one night. Time for bed. Alone.