At the peak of summer I dated an anesthesiologist who was perpetually on call at a hospital in the OC. Summer began to turn and I dated a film production guy who was on set for 14 hours a day. The doctor and I saw each other when we could—a Tuesday here, a Sunday there. As for Mr. Production, he was working on a movie that filmed Saturday through Wednesday, which left Thursday evenings as date night.
The dates themselves were well thought out. I crunched through egg yolk pig ears at Animal before a thrill ride down Fairfax. I was treated to cocktails before Book of Mormon and sushi to follow. I slurped up a platter of oysters under a quilt of Silver Lake stars. I toasted with backyard Sazaracs and kicked up Santa Monica sand. Car doors were always opened. Checks were always paid. And the last bite of our shared plate was always, always mine. But in the end I knew if I couldn’t be seduced over briny Kumamotos and oxtail poutine, neither of these gentlemen were the one.
Fall began, and with it a crush, and for the first time ever I began to think about what night we were scheduled for a date. The gauge was such—the more I liked him, the more it became important for to me to see him on the weekend. One week we had a lovely Friday date, the following week he offered up a Tuesday.
“You got Tuesday’d?” my friend Jonathan said when I called him to question my crush’s motives. “You may not want to hear this, but if you’re getting Tuesday’d that means another girl is probably getting your Friday or Saturday slot.”
I was crushed.
But it made sense. No one has business dinners on Fridays and Saturdays. People that travel for work are usually back by the weekend. In other words, Friday and Saturday nights are the two evenings you actually choose who you spend time with. And I like to think weekends are for romance—you’re meant to spend the mornings shacked up in bed, groggy and in love. If I’m in a relationship and we’ve scrambled from the sheets before noon, something is not right.
When I was with the doctor and Mr. Production, I didn’t mind being Sunday’d because I was using my weekends to venture out on the town and meet other guys. For single people, the weekends are our wingman. It’s the time we meet other single people, at parties or bars or friends’ houses and make plans for the following weekend. If your dude is making you a Tuesday gal, what is he looking for on Friday?
I realized something I never thought about before: More than caring about what restaurant I dine at on a date, I care about what night we dine.
While I was dwelling upon being Tuesday’d, someone I never saw coming asked me out for the weekend.
I had a new crush. I guess that’s what happens when you get Saturday’d.
Filed under: Los Angeles, Opinion
