I have my dear ol' Mom to thank for this dating disaster. You know how they say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions? Well, file this story under that heading.
My Mom gave my phone number to a woman in her book club who's cousin was a single, Jewish guy who happened to live right in my neighborhood. Um, ok. What did she tell me about this potential Romeo? Two facts: he was very tall and he had long hair. I'm not sure if my Mom has ever met me--and I'm pretty sure that she has--but those two facts alone made my ovaries shrivel.
Well, sure enough, homeboy called me a few weeks later. He introduced himself and we made some pleasant small talk. Here's what I learned:
- He was 37
- He is indeed very tall--6'2 to be exact
- He has a "punk rock poodle." WTF? (more on that later)
- He frequents some of the same local watering holes that I frequent and claimed that we've actually met before
He insisted that we had met very recently and namechecked some mutual friends. Who was this guy? So, I casually mentioned that my buddy Rob was DJing at a bar that week and that he should stop by. After we hung up, I told Shannon about this dude and how nice our conversation was. Her eyes got all big and her mouth dropped to the floor.
"You know who that is, right? That's the guy who always stares at you whenever we go to the North Star. You hate him, Anna."
"No!" Denial is the first stage, right?
"Yes! Yes, it is!" she stammered. "That's that guy who has the long hair, he's really tall, he always wears those old man Hawaiian shirts and he has that awful poodle with dreadlocks. Remember? He showed up to Rob's birthday party the other week and you ran away. Oh God, you have a date with him?"
I was horrified. Yes, my Mom had inadvertently given my number to the creepy guy who always stared at me whenever I ran into him, which was on a regular basis. And, it's not a cute, playful, coy stare. It is a full-on Cape Fear, lazer-beam stalker stare. The kind that sears into your brain. He really makes me uncomfortable. But, that's not the worst part. He looks like a freakish love child between The Dude from The Big Lebowski and the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons who moonlights as a cashier at Trader Joe's. Seriously! This guy is not hot.
I immediately called my Mom and freaked out on her that she gave my number to this greasy bohunk and that before he was just a creepy guy I avoided but now he's a creepy guy I avoid who now knows my name and my phone number. She apologized profusely and deadpanned, "Well, I guess you'll just have to move, Honey." Haha. I love you, Mom!
Thursday came around and I went to Rob's night after work. I hoped and prayed that the Big Lebow-SLEAZE would totally forget about our hangout date. I gulped down a beer and checked my watch. Sure enough, he came in at exactly 9:01 wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a smile. He looked like he was in the third trimester of carrying a beer baby. I almost gagged when I heard him say my name.
He sat down and we made extremely awkward conversation. I was
so flustered and freaked out I could barely look him in the eye. It was terrible. It was torture. I think I almost cried at one point.
After about 15 minutes, I announced that I was going to go hang out with my friends now, which meant that I would swivel in my chair to the right and talk with my buddy Mikki, who was sitting beside me. He angrily finished his beer and ordered another one. He slammed that one too, hard. Then he pounded the empty glass on the bar, lept out of his chair and mumbled to me, "Well, that was fun." And, with that, he walked out.
I felt awful for being so disconnected, but what can I say? The guy made my skin crawl. Rob came over to console me and said, "Well, Anna, he is a 37 year-old guy that has long hair and wears Hawaiian shirts. He's kind of painting himself into a corner, dating-wise." So true, Rob. So true.
Blind dates, by nature, are anxiety-ridden and stressful. Both parties involved show up with their own set of expectations and often times, these expectations differ wildly. For instance, we expect them to be gentlemanly, clean, and polite. Pretty crazy, right? And, God knows what they expect from us. A pulse and a pretty face, perhaps?
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