I went on an internet date with this guy from Tennessee.
We met on www.OKCupid.com and I immediately liked his lumberjack beard and his shoulders, and that he was older than me because I like Me some older, hairy, corn fed, Southern fellers.
I like the skinny men, too.
Oh hell, I like ‘em all! Men, you amaze me with your hairy-dangling parts, your baseball player asses, and your Superman shoulders. Kick ass.
Several texts and phone calls later, Ol’ Tennessee and me met at Element Coffee in Camarillo.
Suggestion #1: If you’re serious about wanting to meet someone who will last for the long-haul, a long-term boyfriend, you should meet during the day without alcohol and make the date short. It doesn’t take longer than an hour to figure out if you’re really interested in someone. This way, you avoid getting slobbering-ly drunk and making out/humping some guy you may have really liked. Just trust me. Also, it’s never killed anyone to delay all the swapping of bodily fluids by a few dates.
When he walked in I recognized his face, but my mental hard-on shrank when I saw that he wasn’t cornfed like his online picture.
I’m not perfect, but I don’t misrepresent. The last thing I want is to look up and see a flash of disappointment in my date’s eyes. What you see is what you get, Pal. No double-d’s. No size 2. I’m an honest to goodness size 9, toting Barely B honks.
No big woop. So he wasn’t built like a brick shithouse, so what? Maybe he was an amazing person and we would click in other ways.
He grabbed a coffee and we walked down Ventura Boulevard.
As he spoke, I noted that his teeth were the shade of yellow corn. Dang, man.
All right, so he has stained teeth. Not a deal breaker–could be a vitamin deficiency?
He admitted he was a cigarette smoker. I said, “But your profile says you’re a non-smoker…”
His reply: “I’m trying to quit.”
I talked about school and he talked about his drug use, which consisted of cocaine, mushrooms, marijuana, and alcohol. I experimented in my 20s, but my 30s have been drug-free (minus a bi-monthly tipping of beer or rum).
Then he talked about his problems with anxiety, which I can relate to as I used to be a very anxious teenager and young adult. However, I learned to curb most of my anxiety the old fashioned way: I threw myself into a sea of conversations and interactions, and dealt with embarrasments and awkward moments until the anxiety, like a puddle on a frying pan, shrank to nearly nothing.
My date, however, relied on a different approach to calm his anxiety. He said, “I have to smoke out every day. I smoked out before I got here.”
Perhaps he hoped I might be his perfect other half who also enjoyed illegal drug use for recreation?
An hour later the date was winding down. I told him I had to get back to the coffee shop to study.
He said, “Okay. Walk me to my car.”
Have you ever been around Element Coffee on a weekday in the morning? It’s a tumbleweed town and this guy chose the most tumbleweed street to park; and as we started to get further down the block, and as I started to see less signs of life around us, I asked, “Where’s your car?”
“Down that way,” he said and pointed down into the distance of avenue where parking seemed ample, yet his car was far from sight.
I hesitated and fell a few feet behind him. My heart began to race a bit and I imagined how difficult it might be for anyone to hear my screams.
Suggestion #2 (and this will be a no-brainer to every girl except yours truly): Don’t walk a guy to his car after a first date. Maybe he’s a rapist,… or maybe he’s just first-date inept. Whatever the case: make the ineptitude his problem and avoid becoming a statistic on the local 9pm news. He should be walking you to your car.
“You know,” I said, “I think I’m going to go back. You can walk yourself to your car.”
“Really?” He asked, seeming put-off that I was not willing to join him at his rape mobile and sniff the dampened t-shirt in his trunk.
“Does this smell like chlorophorm?” He would ask as he smothered my face with the shirt, then planted his foot in my ass so that I landed squarely atop the black plastic tarp, bungee chords, and spade shovel.
“Yeah, really,” I answered.
“Well, come here and give me a hug,” he said, not moving.
I said, “Nope. Gotta get back. I’ll write you later. Have a good day!”
With that, I waved goodbye, turned, and jogged back to the coffee shop, the whole time expecting to feel him leap onto my back and whisper, “Wrastlin’ time, bitch!”
Looking back, I don’t believe he was going to snuff me out and bury my body in the field behind Santa Barbara Business College…but why chance it?
It’s been a few weeks, and I have not contacted this guy who became known among my friends as Chloroform Guy. I figured: no hard feelings as I didn’t hear from him, either. Then, today, while sitting at The Coffee Bean in Ventura, my laptop propped open and a homework deadline looming overhead, I glanced up and saw him walk in.
And I, the eternal gutless pussy, became Beeker from The Muppets and shrunk my face beneath the protective castle walls of my laptop screen.
Suggestion #3: If you’re absolutely sure you’re not interested in someone after a first date, take the high road and write a courtesy email that states, “Hey, I had a great time, but I didn’t feel a love connection and I sensed that you agree. Thanks for meeting!” Then you avoid all future, Beeker moments.
He ordered his coffee and walked out– eventually, I’m assuming. I couldn’t tell you how long he was there because I assumed the Beeker position for 10 minutes before convincing myself it was OK to look up again.
So again, another failed date. I throw myself back into the man pool, balls-deep as my guy friends say, to find my co-pilot.
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
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