One Too Many?

by Nicholas Allen — June 16, 2007

I make it a policy never to drink too much on a first date. I should probably clarify that I make it a policy never to drink too much, period. What's cute in a college-aged man pledging a fraternity is often creepy and sad when a man is in his thirties. But I'm especially careful on dates, because I have to assume that no woman is consenting to spend an evening with me just so she can watch me get liquored up and ogle her breasts. I've learned over the years how to surreptitiously "sneak a peek" in such a way that the woman I'm with rarely notices (I'm an unabashed and lifelong "breast man," I might as well confess here), and drinking too much will generally make me careless.

I was out last night on a third date with a very attractive woman I'd been eyeing from afar for some time. She works in my industry and we'd always seem to run into each other at cocktail parties, dinners, afternoon film screenings...you get the point. It took me a couple of months to move from playful banter to an actual date request, and the first two dates went well. I know many women who swear by a third-date system of assessing relationships, wherein the success or failure of a third date can be the crucial tipping point that determines whether the relationship will move forward, remain stuck in neutral, or end altogether. Wanting to stay sharp, I limited my alcohol intake to a single beer with dinner and one during the intermission of the play we went to see.

When the date ended, Lana suggested that we return to her place to watch a screener copy of a movie she'd just gotten on DVD. Lana writes about film for a living, so she often gets advance copies months before they're available to the public. It sounded like a good idea to me.

Lana had had more to drink over the course of the evening than I had (a few glasses of wine, maybe a cocktail or two), but it hadn't seemed to affect her one way or the other. However, within about 15 minutes of our settling onto her couch to begin watching the movie, she fell asleep. Maybe a better way of putting it would be to say that she passed out. There was even snoring involved. And while the rise and fall of her cleavage over the top of her dress as she slept was a sight I could have watched for hours, the scenario soon began to feel awkward. I was afraid that if I woke her up, she might be embarrassed for having fallen asleep. But it seemed clear to me that there was only so long I could remain there, with her sleeping, before that became not just awkward but weird.

So I waited another hour or so to see if she would wake up. When she didn't, I covered her with a blanket and left, making sure the door was locked on my way out.

So far, I'm the one who's initiated all the phone calls and date invitations, which I've been happy to do. I'm thinking now, though, that perhaps this time it'll be Lana who calls me the day after, with a sheepish, "I can't believe I fell asleep! Why don't we try it again this weekend...?"

Sometimes, sobriety has its advantages.

Nicholas Allen is a freelance writer and columnist based in Manhattan.