I went on a date Friday night. I tell you this so you will understand that I have fulfilled my date quota for the year and you won’t have the expectation of further dating stories this year. Any future dating posts are probably either made up, fantasies (especially if they involve Ryan Reynolds lookalikes), or are from the past that I blacked out and have now remembered through hypnosis.
I didn’t quite know what to expect, although with my track record I suppose it was somewhere between a bikini wax and finding an extra quarter in the vending machine. If my expectations were any lower, I’d be the Sandals Montego Bay limbo record holder.
Seeing as this was my first Tinder date, I paused before opening the restaurant door. Could it be worse than a PlentyOfFish date? That’s pretty much the bottom of the dead carp barrel. Although the fact that he suggested an actual restaurant for a first meeting was automatically an upgrade from men on other sites who tend to suggest pulling up to the same stoplight at 8:18 pm and exchanging waves, possibly even hellos, before making a speedy getaway on I-95.
To my surprise, he actually resembled his photo. Which is to say he was HOT. I knew I was overmatched. He was initially quiet, which typically equates to disappointment and silent prayer that a kitchen fire forced evacuation or a less painful death. Within 2 minutes his phone chimed to signal the inevitable “kid emergency”. But hey! He didn’t respond. Maybe my dating instincts were way off.
About five minutes in, he leaned over and whispered, “Look to your left.”
The strange woman next to me who wouldn’t move down an empty seat for me met up with her companion, who was a 6’0” Italian man in an aqua dress. Or Bea Arthur came back from the dead. He/Bea was rocking the full smoky eye that always makes me look like Beetlejuice whenever I try it. And he asked her in his best Harvey Fierstein chain smoker’s voice, “Is this lipstick too much, honey? I’m afraid it’s too much. Be honest!” Well if you insist, yes…yes it is. Can’t have smokey eyes and shiny fuschia lips. Much too much. And the 5:00 shadow doesn’t help either.
It did help to ease the awkwardness of the online date. However, it was difficult to keep up a conversation when out of nowhere you would hear things like, “I was such a slut. I’m not even exaggerating when I tell you I’ve slept with 150 men in one year.” Your mind can’t help but stop and do the math, which is one guy every 2.43 days. But probably less frequent than that, because I’m sure there were some threesomes in there. Oh God, why am I thinking about this???
Hot Date and I tried to block them out, looking intently at a menu when He/Bea said, “I wish guys paid more attention to their diets. Don’t they realize how nasty it can make their junk taste?” Without missing a beat, Hot Date said “Guess I won’t be ordering the asparagus.” For a second I thought this man had great comedic timing to go with his supermodel cheekbones. I was impressed that he might be up to the challenge of my witty banter.
Being known for my inability to keep a poker face, I opted to fold like Kenny Rogers and try to avoid looking at He/Bea. Also ADD was making it hard to keep up my part of the conversation. I turned completely sideways on my stool to face Hot Date in order to avoid beer shooting out my nose, which is where He/Bea’s conversation was going to lead. While it was positive body language that I wanted to jump my date, it did get awkward. I often had to lean in so he could provide color commentary on the activity behind me, but then it would leave me leaning over his crotch. Since Hot Date was speculating that the woman was really a prostitute, I wondered if they were thinking the same thing about me with the frequency I was leaning over his lap. Fortunately my date wasn’t as much of a smartass as I would have been and refrained from pushing the back of my head down for a cheap laugh. Was he a gentleman, or did he just not have my twisted sense of humor after all?
The bartender got in on the act when He/Bea went to the ladies’ room. Or was it the men’s room? Should I be calling Paul Ryan to report this? I was ethically confused.
The bartender was also curious to the He/Bea story. It turns out that He/Bea was the woman’s Uber driver and they decided to have a girl’s night out.
I looked around for the hidden camera. Surely I was on that show where people are set up to look like horrible, politically incorrect people. I was concerned I might not look like my super liberal socialist self on tv. My problem wasn’t with a transgendering woman next to me. I thought she was hilarious and I’d love to get more pithy life lessons for the blog. My problem was that I was listening to Harvey Fierstein giving a lesson on semen taste when I’m on a date with a guy I was super attracted to. You usually save that conversation for the 4th date.
But in the end, Hot Date just wasn’t that into me. All I got out of it was an awkward half-hug and kiss on the cheek. Told you it was too good to be true. At least I got a blog post out of it.