“Is there any way we could change it to some place that I know? What if this restaurant you’re talking about doesn’t exist? And how do I know you’re not just going to kill me?”
Were the first words my blind date texted me on Friday night.
For full effect, download “Midnight Rambler” by The Rolling Stones, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
Before I begin, I would like to issue a formal apology on the delay of this post. For some reason my hometown of St. George decided to go into complete shut down mode when the big man upstairs sent down a few snow flurries. You would think a city with over 100,000 people would know how to shovel a sidewalk and not feel they have reached the actual apocalypse. It is because of this geriatric catastrophe, and the 15-hour disruption in my travel schedule, that caused this interruption.
For the record, I would also like to say that although a week ago I went on an independent splurge talking about how I am not ready to be a Father, ranting about the torturous road of what raising a child must be like, a key word to remember is, “yet”. Because in all reality, one day I’m actually going to be a real Father raising a handful of kids, and telling them the 9-season long story of How I Met Their Mother.
And that is what this blog is about. Telling my kids the stories of bad dates I had when women who aren’t their Mother mistook me for being a serial killer.
It is somewhat of a kick in the manhood to have an elementary school teacher put me in the same category as Ted Bundy. Are we all engineered to be defensive about someone who asks for our number and drives a few hours to take us to dinner? Maybe all women do in fact think that men are the devil. For all I know, this girl probably thought I was a Satan worshipper as she nervously walked in to Zupa’s holding pepper spray and a switchblade behind her back.
“Hi, I’m …” she said with a plastic smile on her face.
It was at this point when I realized that I was the one whose life might be at risk.
… was hands down one of the most entertaining girls I have ever taken out. And when I say entertaining, I don’t mean my heart was captured with a rush of emotions entranced by her beauty. I mean entertaining like a six-year old with ADD that you keep feeding spoonfuls of paint, while you sit back with a bag of popcorn and laugh at the show they put on.
I could recount to you the entire one-hour, nine-minute meal we shared, but I think her top three quotes of the night could sum everything up.
… “I think you just have to draw the line at AIDS.”
… “Don’t tell anyone this, but when I was a freshman at the Y, in multiple instances I went past the chastity line that they have in apartments. I even went back into a boy’s bedroom once!”
… “My girlfriend made the statement that everyone is different. They all have a different lid. There are the circle lids, the square lids, the triangle lids, and the star lids. And that’s what he is. You have to agree that a guy who dresses up as a ninja for fun is a star lid kind of guy.”
I must say that last quote sums up our date. Everyone is different.
As I walked her to her car in normal serial killer fashion, I knew there would not be a second date between the two of us. She was funny, she was sweet, she was the best show that a $15 dinner at Zupa’s could buy. But the bottom line is that I am not the kind of man she is looking to spend the rest of her life with. In her own lunatic words, I’m just not the lid that will fit her jar.
And so I’ll keep looking. I’ll keep testing the waters. I’ll keep asking complete strangers out. I’ll keep agreeing to go on blind dates with elementary school Zoobies who accuse me of being a man who murders innocent people as a hobby.
Because after all, every serial killer needs a lover, don’t they?