Purse? Check. Keys? Check. Cell phone? Check. Cleavage? I glance down at my low-cut blouse’s meager offerings. Half-check. No amount of fluffing will get those ladies ready to go, it seems. Another year has come and gone, and seen the last of my single friends become not-so-single, and eventually married. You know that saying “always a bridesmaid, never a bride?” Yeah. That’s me. I’ve been in two weddings a year since high school. And I don’t really care to repeat how long ago that was. Suffice it to say, I’ve run out of fingers to count on when it comes to the wedding thing.
Now that all of my friends are oh-so-happy and desperately in love and are just DYING to go on a double date with me and good Lord when will I find a man so we can have double dates, I’ve been set up on a blind date. Every. Damn. Weekend.
At first I was shy, wearing boat neck blouses and turtlenecks and stuff. But apparently, all men want are the sweater kittens. If they can’t look at those, where’s the interest? Enter the Slut Shirts- strange, filmy materials that get staticky and cling in weird places and show the tan line from my would-be revealing bikini, if I had anything to reveal. Sure, low-cut shirts are supposed to be sexy, but what’s sexy about a sternum? Not much. My so-called friends assure me it won’t matter. They say I’m “hinting” at what’s beneath, and that it adds “allure” and “mystery.” Personally, I find it hard to judge where the line between hiding sexy and showing sexy is according to these people.
At least my spectacular crash-and-burn on the ice last Wednesday gives me an excuse to cover up my legs, which currently resemble raw hamburger. What can I say, I’m a sexy beast.
When I arrive at the restaurant, my eyes immediately zone in on the target. Not the bar, though it does dance oh-so-seductively at my periphery. No, the white rose laid carefully along the table’s edge. It’s the protocol that has been established for my blind dates. With a deep breath and a longing glance at the colorful bottles along the far wall, I make my move.
I play my role well enough. I smile, do the shy thing. Not too hard for me- a little giggle here, a downcast gaze there, maybe even a hair-tuck or two if I’m feeling coy. And that’s just the introduction.
It’s between the wine course and the appetizer course that I notice he’s gazing at my sternum. Not my tits, my sternum. I think. I glance down at my chest again. Hello? Ladies? Are you down there? The nice man wants to say hello, and all he’s getting is the bony asshole between you.
Appetizers include oysters, because apparently Jack (that’s Mystery Man’s name) is feeling amorous. What other reason than wanting an aphrodisiac could someone have for ordering these slimy, half-inflated balloon things? At least the garlic flavor of the sauce is strong. Though I’m not sure how wise it is for a fine dining establishment to serve an aphrodisiac bathed in one of the least sexy smell-slash- other person’s mouth flavors.
He drones on and on about his love for seafood, and he even tries to feed me one of the mollusks. I politely decline, saying I want room for the main course before taking another sip of wine.
Someone needs to find a way to up the booze-a-hol content of fermented grapes. Those sparkly bottles across the room catch my attention again. Ahh, Grey Goose, my one true love. Will you wait for me?
Jack is apparently a stock broker, something I know nothing about and apparently involves a lot of numbers. I’m not so great with numbers. I tell him as much and I get a patronizing smile and hand pat before he changes the subject to music. This is a subject I can get behind.
We chat about the Grammy awards and how Cee-Lo may have topped Gaga with his bird-slash-armor outfit, and about the Best New Artist upset. We debate the merits of Eminem as an artist and not just a rapper, and why the voters don’t seem to give two shits. Everything is going great, and we’re halfway through the main course when I realize I’m having fun. I like this guy, despite the patronizing man-smile hand-pat.
And just like that, the other shoe drops. He invites me to a concert next weekend, and my intrigue piques.
“Who?” I ask. Maybe it’ll be someone awesome, or indie. No, not indie. I’m not sure I could date a hipster. I’d have to work way too hard.
He grins, and it lights up the room. Not even the shiny bottles distract me from this man’s joy, his elation, until he reveals his dark secret. “Nickelback. I have season tickets,” he beams.
Fuck. My. Life.
I don’t even stay for dessert.
_______________________________
My brother just bought me a fleshlight. Asshole. I’m hoping he did it only so I would agree to go on a blind date with his wife’s sister’s college roommate’s best friend. I can’t imagine looking at him again if he seriously thought about my fapping.
I dress nice for this one. I want to make an effort, because God forbid he buys me a RealDoll. That’s just a little too Uncanny Valley for my delicate sensibilities. I’m aiming casual, but not too casual, and definitely not Mr. Stock Broker. I hate penguin suits.
Nate was kind enough to inform me that protocol with this girl included a single white rose laid along the table’s edge. It seems a little Lifetime Original Movie for me, but I don’t really have much of a choice but to follow procedure. The date is scheduled for 7:30, so naturally I show up half an hour early with a reservation and then sit alone for the next thirty minutes, glancing anxiously at the door.
It’s precisely 7:31 when a tall brunette approaches my table. She strokes the white petals of the flower before smiling at me with half her mouth. She introduces herself as Felicia, and I confirm my identity, and that yes this is in fact the right table. I even do the over-rated gentlemanly thing and stand up before she takes her seat. The internet tells me that women love chivalry, and hey, millions of faceless users can’t be wrong, right?
I’d ordered a bottle of sangria and some oysters…mussels? Mollusks to be delivered to our table when she arrived. And they do arrive, in a surprisingly timely fashion, the wine coming slightly in the lead. When she leans over to pour a little more in her glass, her shirt shifts ever so slightly and I see a hint of bra. As far as blind dates go, catching a glimpse of bra is like the holy land, or the garden of Eden, or something else Biblically awesome and I’m transfixed. My rapture is interrupted by the cougar-ish waitress bringing me my delicious seafood.
Felicia looks less than impressed by the appetizer choice. Alas, it must not be in the stars for me to find a woman who enjoys fishy, garlicky goodness.
Felicia asks me about my job, and I launch into a slightly overly-detailed explanation of what I do. Of course, I leave out the less-than-glamorous parts, like how my newbie status has granted me business cards proclaiming me as the “coffee bitch.” Her eyes glaze over, not so much in the fun drunken way, but more in the “Oh shitballs I’m bored,” kind of way. I ask her about her thousand yard stare, and she proclaims she is “not so good with the mathy-ness.” I smile in what I hope is a comforting manner before I gently pat her hand. Most girls aren’t so good with the “mathy-ness” anyway, and I really need to learn to leave out all the technical stuff.
There are a few slightly awkward moments of relative silence, where all that can be heard is the chatter of other patrons, the clatter of cutlery, and the strange squishy chewing noises that my unfortunately-chosen appetizer provides. A few moments in to this lull and I notice a rhythm, which leads my mind to make the slightly illogical jump to a discussion about music.
Music is harmless, right? I contest her assertion that Cee-Lo Green’s outfit was crazier than Lady Gaga hatching from an egg. I mean, it’s no bloody bride scary thing, but Gaga is hot, and anytime she resembles anything close to nude I’m a fan. We both agree that Eminem really deserves to be honored outside the rap category. The man has over a dozen Grammys, all from the same categories? I call shenanigans all over that. It’s when she’s discussing her love of concerts and her desire to see Florence and the Machine (who she believes should have won Best New Artist and is outraged that that stupid Bieber kid was even nominated in the same category) live that I have a brainwave. A magnificent, game altering brain wave.
I invite her to a concert, one that I have an extra ticket for next weekend.
I can see the wheels turning in Felicia’s head, partly because she screws up her face in the strangest ways when she is thinking. There may have been an eye twitch or two. “Who?” she asks, looking at me like I hold the key to the universe.
“Nickelback,” I say, grinning broadly. “I have season tickets.”
I watch as her face crumples before mutating into a look of abject horror. And just like that, she stands up, gathers her things, and bolts.
Fuck. My. Life.
She didn’t even stay for dessert.
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