I’m going to preface this by saying I truly wish I was making it up.
I set myself up on a blind date with a beautiful, foreign, twenty-something man last weekend after meeting him at a bar. And by meeting, I mean, chatting for two seconds while waiting for friends, leaving, then going back into the bar to pull a stunt I had abandoned since freshman year of college. I was a few drinks into my evening, and he had been amiable during our little chat before…
“I’m really sorry, I never do this–” (blatant lie… it’s just been awhile) “–but I’d really like to see you again. Could I get your number?”
Why, yes, he said, I could. High five, self! Confidence, boosted.
We ultimately decided to meet for drinks the following weekend. Why did it have to be that weekend? Oh, because of course he was MOVING TO EUROPE the following week. The night I met him had been his going away party.
Naturally, the first date I’ve been on in months would have no potential to go anywhere. But he was hot, and I thoroughly enjoyed that accent. This was a pressure-free situation, and he showed up in a suit. Screw Europe. Europe had nothing on my evening out with this guy.
Things were great… and then came a random man who approached and started chatting Date up, gesturing to me and asking, “That your girlfriend?”
Date smiled and shook his head. I opted to finish my drink. “Unfortunately, no,” he said with his adorable accent. Date Crasher was intrigued.
“Where you from?” he asked. Date answered this along with a barrage of questions from Date Crasher about racism in his homeland as opposed to the U.S.
So romantic. Exactly the sort of conversation you hope for on a first date.
We exchanged several glances. We were both too nice to say anything, then somehow got the conversation back to ourselves. The bartender noticed our problem and offered us shots.
Date Crasher subsided for a few moments, then returned when Date and I mentioned Los Angeles. He jumped back in and said that LA had “the most beautiful women.”
“I don’t think the beautiful women are what make a city for her,” Date said to the Crasher.
Crasher then looked me up and down. I shuddered. “You’re attractive. Do you think you’re pretty? Be honest.”
Uncomfortable doesn’t begin to describe it. He would not let it go. Date was looking at me. Panic. How do I handle this…?
“Um… I guess I’m a cute girl?” A cute girl who sounds either cocky or confident and WHY was this guy not leaving us alone? How do you answer that question?!
It only got better when he asked me to rate myself on a scale of one to ten. I sincerely thought he was joking, but he wouldn’t let it go. Finally I mumbled something about a 7 and wanted to crawl under the bar and die. “I disagree,” Date Crasher yelled.
Oh, G-d. What was he going to say? Kill me now…
“You’re a 10. She’s a 10, bro.”
I awkwardly laughed and finished my next drink. The bartender was ready with another round of shots. Date and I took them, maybe a little too eagerly.
The awkwardness was only alleviated after Date rated me an 11 and asked for the check. Date Crasher left and we laughed, and I shortly thereafter discovered that Date was a pretty phenomenal kisser.
A couple hours and drinks later, I confirmed that Date was actually moving, because his apartment was full of boxes. I noticed the next morning that he also had most of his clothing packed. Yes, I am a classy broad, but seriously…the accent did me in. No regrets.
Until, of course, I tried to pull myself together and find my way home, post-hook-up hair and all…
[As All Good Stories End, To Be Continued…]