A Marxist and a Gold Digger Go On a Date

No, we are not splitting the check.

I made this.

*full audio version narrated by yours truly is available behind the paywall :)

I’ve been rescheduling a first date with a Communist since September. On May 1st, International Worker’s day, he finally coaxed me out of the house. Here’s how that went:

Date 1:

"So are your parents rich?"

There is no theory compatible with the known laws of the universe that can explain why that was my first question to him after “how’d the rally go,” but I did have an out-of-body experience watching myself ask it.

"I like the way you asked that. Very direct,” he says. “They’re not rich, no. I’m only a Nepo in industry clout not, actual money.”

Damn it.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why it came out like that. This is clearly my first time out in a very long time," I tell him.

“Yeah, it took some effort to get you on this date.”

And for good reason. We originally matched at a time in my life when money was tight and lust for materialistic dribble was all consuming. I was reluctantly exiting sex work and as a result, entering the first broke-girl era of my 20’s  exactly at the time when all of my friends with civilian jobs started making more which mean I couldn’t afford any of the milestones we were finally sophisticated enough to fantasize about. I was working a day job that I hated and felt morally conflicted about, and I was asking myself tough questions about the balance between financial stability, self-funded dreams, and the space in the middle of those two where my identity was supposed to live.

He was a professor who taught a class on the ethics of economics, so I felt like at the very least, he’d ask the kind of questions that I was brainstorming answers for. After a quick exchange of hellos, I scheduled and then promptly unscheduled our first date. Throughout the year, I kept finding reasons to cancel. I was bloated, I hadn’t been on my anti-depressants long enough, I was falling in love with someone else, I was spiraling and regretting everything. I’d been on a series of back-to-back bad first dates and I felt like one more would make me want to jump in front of a train.

"I wanted to work on my personality a bit before subjecting others to it."

"Well I'm obviously having a terrible time," he says smiling.

The rest of the date is about three hours long and speckled with suggestions of second and third date activities. The ballet. The movies. The park. I don’t love dates that require me to walk or go outside, but he’s insistent on taking me to this particular park up north of the Bronx. Despite occasional bickering (he thinks Peggy is the most annoying Mad Men character, I think it’s Don) I’m really enjoying my time with him. He’s very clever and has a  melodic voice and beautiful hair. Plus he’s charming in a rom-com way, which makes sense because he has a big sister and loved the Princess Diaries as a boy.

Our personalities mesh well, but it’s clear that we get out of bed in the morning for different reasons. He’s one of the first people I’ve met in New York who moved here not to make money, but to study it, and not for money’s sake, but for the sake of studying. Even as a straight A student, I rarely felt motivated by knowledge, just by the praise or results that said knowledge could produce. If anything, there are moments where I wish I knew less. So, are we complimentary or clashing? Too early to tell, but the confusion is attractive to me.

Date 2:

Money is already a point of contention between us. He’s shocked that I don’t even offer to split the bill, I’m shocked that he’s ever been on a date where that was the norm.

“I don’t split the tab with my partner until like month 3,” I tell him.

He looks concerned. 

“Can I ask why?”