“This seems like a pretty nice place. Do you come here a lot?” I say.
“Not really, only when I want to take advantage of good-looking guys with deep wallets on first dates.” She says.
For full effect, download “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
Kids, before I delve into that one night with that one girl in that one place that I’m going to be very vague about for the sake of liability issues, I just want to tell you that I have had some funny stories happen to me over the years, stories that have pushed me to fits of tears and upchuckles of laughter. This one however, well, this one was an instant classic the moment I made a pretty girl turn an angry shade of embarrassment by a philosophical reference to a slang term about male genitalia.
For the record, I would also like to add that I only fit one of the three prior qualifications that she stated she was taking advantage of. I do not own more than one motor vehicle, I have not posed for GQ magazine as a side gig, I was simply the next twig and berries in line as a suitor. A blind suitor I might add.
“So do you enjoy this part of the neighborhood? I mean, what the heck keeps you entertained in these parts?” I say.
“Oh there are all sorts of things that keep me busy. But I must say that when I’m feeling like I need a break, I just go dancing. That fixes everything.”
For the record, I would also like to add that this was a very pretty, very flexible, very stereotyped girl in her mid-twenties who was chewing on some fancy pants $12 appetizer in between sentences. Think about it, what girl has never said the words “Sometimes I come home from work, I turn on the music, and I…I just gotta dance!” I know. My point exactly.
“Dancing can be addicting. I wouldn’t know because I’m a heterosexual Caucasian male over six feet tall, but I’m sure it does wonders for anyone else who isn’t in that demographic concoction. What do you do in the meantime to pay the bills?” I say.
This is the part where I tell you that in order to have a successful conversation on a blind date between any man and woman, 61% of the dialogue must come from the side who is wearing makeup. True story. If you, the male, think it’s your job to tell her about that one time when you were in high school and you hit a home run in 6th period P.E., or about that one stalker ex-girlfriend who burned a hole in your apartment, well sorry son, this might not be your night. Shut your mouth and let her talk. That’s a fundamental of dating.
“Anyway, I’ve been blathering on about myself for too long. What are your plans for the next few years? What’s the next big thing you want to tackle?” She asks.
Brace yourself kids, this just might be the moneymaker.
“Well, I’ve got plans as far as what I want to do for my career, and my schooling, but one thing I’ve come to learn is that things never really go according to plan. One day we’re on cloud nine living the dream, the next day life decides to throw a wrench in our plans and theoretically kick us in the nuts.”
She brings her left hand to cover her mouth and looks down at the $900 freshly shaved wooden table. Raising up the pointer finger on her right hand like a third grade girl scout begging for the teacher's attention, she swallows back what appears to be a mouthful of tears and embarrassment.
“Pants.” She says.
“Kick in the pants. I have dated many projects before in my life, but one thing I will never allow is to be courted by a man who has a foul mouth.”
This is the part where I bring my lips back inside my mouth and bite a hole in the left side of my cheek trying to hold back my vomited response of laughter in this sweet young dancer’s face. Yes kids, she said pants. That line was verbatim. Our meal would go on, but only with an awkward asterisk hanging over our heads because of my foul language. Things weren’t the same. We didn’t click. We didn’t mesh. I didn’t care anymore about her obsession with dancing, and she could tell. Which led her to probe deeper into my character about ten minutes after her rebuking of my spirituality.
“What would you say is a dealbreaker when it comes to dating a girl.” She asks.
“Hmm…that’s a very layered question. I mean you’ve got the basics, like if they have a kid, or have been married three times before we met. But then there are the smaller things, like girls who lie on a repetitive basis, or girls who have a hard time saying the word nuts.”
She looks up from her $19 plate of carrot cake and begins to turn pink like a sunburnt ginger.