I get myself into these messes. I’m aware of that. I figured I should admit that now before I torment you with the details of another wild date.
Kevin is the little brother of an old friend of mine. She’s been actively trying to set us up for years and I had a weak moment and agreed to dinner. My time off did not result in the evening I wanted with the man I’m addicted to, so perhaps Kevin is a bit of a tantrum, if you will?
Whatever…. I agreed to go and was kicking myself all day yesterday. His text messages didn’t help.
K- Just 6 hours and 35 minutes….
Ugh. If the dentist operated like that I’d let all my teeth fall out in reluctant anticipation.
Yep, that’s as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
K- What are you hungry for?
I’d been weighing my restaurant options all day. I didn’t want this date to be public because we have a lot of mutual friends and I’m as noncommittal as it gets without being a nun and moving into the convent. That brief stint of having a boyfriend taught me that I don’t want one of those.
I want regular sex from someone capable, honest and funny. I’ll tolerate the good morning text messages if I have to. No phone calls, no regular demands on my time and no whining. No family dinners and no meeting my children. That’s tough to spell out over a steak, so I figured salad was a better option. Or soup… ?
Half hour, tops. Right?
J- I’ve been craving vegetable beef soup and cornbread. Ever been to Panhandler Pies?
Fingers crossed he doesn’t read my blog and know that’s where I take the dates I don’t want to revisit.
K- That’s an odd choice, but what the lady wants, the lady gets. See you there!
I felt guilty half way through the day of ignoring his text messages. I really wanted to hang out with my sister after work and have a few beers with some old friends, so I changed our plans and made a later date with him at the hippie bar. Why not? I rarely go there so I hoped the impact would be minimal.
After those beers though, I wanted to climb in bed and go to sleep- not meet a boy and paste a fake smile on for an hour or three. Miss Lovely texted me and pushed me to go.
L- OH COME ON!!! DO it for ME!!!
Which is precisely why I went. I sat down at the furthest table I could find and stifled a yawn. He was late… something that annoys me endlessly on a 3rd or 4th date, but I don’t mind being able to have a drink alone while my nerves settle down for the first one.
He walked in smiling, smelling like my favorite variety of man and making me realize I’ve missed cologne. He’s been to see my favorite barber and is clean cut delicious. He has nice hands that look like he gets a regular manicure. I’m intrigued.
He’s 28… just 4 years older than my firstborn. While I may end up with a felony for robbing the nursery, it’s also nice knowing I can safely skip the ED conversation. If I am unlucky enough to find the lone 28 year old who can’t get an erection, I’m checking into that convent.
He’s in graduate school, does CrossFit and looks like he could bench press me. I’m a curvy girl- that’s not a slight thing. He’s funny enough that I’m sounding tipsy after one glass of bubbles because he keeps cracking me up.
He orders a steak… medium well. My heart breaks a little and he must have noticed.
K- Uh oh. Why the clouds?
J- I’m a medium rare girl. I’m afraid I can’t cook you steak if you like to ruin it.
K- I just can’t see the blood on the plate. It makes me feel guilty for eating a nice, friendly cow.
J- Huh. Let me let you in on a little secret: the cow doesn’t care. It’s dead. How you cremate it is up to you. I’d be damn offended if someone overcooked me.
K- Well I’d definitely eat you rare.
Cue awkward silence and my rogue left eyebrow.
K- Yep. You heard me.
He’s sassy, so pretty I feel slightly guilty and smart enough to make me abandon my concerns.
The server brought our dinner and as he cut into his steak, I could see that it was clearly medium rare. I waited for his reaction.
J- Your steak is not medium well.
K- I asked her to change it when you went to the bathroom. I figure if I’m going to ask you to try new things, I can too.
He rests his hand on my knee under the table and I’m acutely aware of his fingernails tracing circles while I try to focus on what I should be doing in comparison to what I want to be doing.
K- Do you want dessert? Or should we get out of here?
J- Awww sorry- my little one is at home and I have to call it a night. Thank you for dinner.
K- You’re on Dad week. Your house is empty. You don’t want to take me home?
Shit. I told him. Bubbles go to my head, what can I say?
J- Well no, I don’t. I apologize for the ruthless honesty, but I tried to sugar coat it for you.
K- Can you give me any pointers? My steak was amazing, by the way. Thank you for giving me a hard time.
J- Sorry I won’t let you do the same.
K- I’m not going anywhere. May I take you to dinner again tomorrow?
J- No, but thank you.
J- You’re funny.
K- No I’m confident and I know what I want. What are your plans for the Superbowl?
The Heathen is determined.