I went on two dates last week. The first was horrendous and the second ended with slushies at a gay bar.
Because I hadn’t been on a date since before Christmas and was running the risk of writing a “men as socks” post, I was strongly encouraged by my reading audience (hi, Lexi) to give dating another go. So back to Tinder it was. I even threw in the new Hinge app, just in case I wasn’t sure if I’d hit rock bottom.
The first date of the week was at Cafe Babareeba (love that place), and I was pretty impressed by the fact Tinder Guy #456 took the time to make a reservation. (Note: This is when you know your expectations have sunk to Lindsay Lohan levels. When reservations become the equivalent to flowers, jewelry, and running out to get McDonald’s breakfast.)
And if you’re wondering how slushie-gay-bar date could’ve outdone Mr. Reservations, let me break it down for you:
I started to tally the amount of questions Res asked me. By the end of the night, my estimation was four…and a half. (He started one, and then reverted the conversation back to himself. Again.) By the end of the night, I could’ve written, casted, and directed this guy’s Lifetime movie, and he had no clue what I do for a living.
Aware of my habit to sometimes ask a million questions like Guiliana Rancic (shut up, I’m totally like her), and not give my date opportunities to get a few in of his own, I left ample room for Res to reciprocate with some questions. I allowed pauses to infiltrate the conversation. I asked questions that could easily have had a “How about you?” follow-up. I dropped that I used to teach at least four times. I mean, I was TEEING HIM UP. What did you teach? How long? Where? What was it like? Why did you leave? If nothing else, I have to say my former profession always made rockstar cocktail party conversation. (People think they’re so creative when they call you Hilary Swank.)
He did ask me if I’d had any surgeries. So there was that.
After Res detailed the last conversation he had with his grandmother before she died, he also shared that he was born with two sets of wisdom teeth. Looking down, he solemnly explained that this meant he had to have wisdom teeth surgery. Twice.
I told him that’s just like when I was diagnosed with my brain tumor. Oh wait. Did you say wisdom teeth?
- I Do What I Want…Yo
Since I wasn’t talking, I got to do my fair share of eating, which was awesome because tapas have a lot of bacon. I was really full, but Res insisted, in a slightly 1950s-esque manner, that I get a dessert: “Order something.” Not like a playful suggestion, but like a direction. I shrugged, saw there was butterscotch on the menu, and went for it. Yolo…or something.
I was nearing the end of my butterscotch, listening to Res talk about his high school GPA when he looked at me and said, “Finish it.”* An image of Betty Draper flashed through my mind. And then I flung my spoon at his head. No, I didn’t. For fear of hitting his teeth and jostling the war wounds.
- I Will Become a Nun for You to Leave Me Alone
Aside from the surgery inquiry, Res also asked if I’m “really religious.” Totally not a loaded question at all. The former teacher in me responded with a question back, asking him why he wanted to know. Res explained that this had been an issue for other women in the past and he “didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.”
Honey, this religion factor isn’t going to waste anyone’s time. But, of course, he never asked.
*For anyone who remembers what it was like being told to brush their teeth or
values their self-respect, I don’t like being ordered around. I crossed my arms and began filing my nails.**
**Not really. But that, or walking out would’ve been pretty bad ass.