Ugh. I don’t want to go on this date.
It’s been a ten hour day, working two different jobs, with nothing longer than a pee break. I just want to go home, order take out, and call it a day. But no. I have a date. With a dude I’ve never met in person. Which of course is the easiest kind of date to bail on. People do all the time. But no, not me. I hate that shit.
I make it a point to never bail on a date. Even if it means I show up late, having not eaten dinner, and cranky as fuck!
I arrive fashionably late. Typical. For the first time in my entire life, I approach the wrong guy. Atypical. My first online date was almost five years ago, this has always been a fear, one never before realized. I play it off super cool, I honestly don’t think anyone figured out what happened. But I know.
I know I went up to the wrong sandy blond, said the name of the guy I was supposed to meet, and didn’t get a head turn. Then have to walk off the embarrassment immediately and approach the table where my date was actually sitting. It’s moments like these that make all my student loans for a BA in Theater Arts worth it. Without the degree I would never manage to convincingly play it cool.
I finally meet my date, he’s cute and fun, conversation is easy. My attitude hasn’t changed, I still don’t really want to be here. So I have the I don’t really give a shit cool-vibe going that drives men wild. I’m hungry, so I order a Guinness and pretend it’s a milkshake. I’m also thirsty, so guess what? I drink it way too fast!
Remember a couple weeks ago when I took a painting class and got drunk? This is turning into a pattern. Let’s just proclaim me the lightest light-weight in all of New York City.
So there I am drunk off one beer, sitting in a bar in the East Village with a dude I just met. Who is friendly and engaging and has managed to make me laugh despite my extreme hangry condition. He somehow seems to be having a good time.
“Do you want to get another drink?” He asks.
“No.” I reply very, very quickly. I probably stifle a belch before continuing, “I didn’t eat dinner and I’m really feeling this one beer.” I feel bad leaving after one practically chugged Guinness so I ask, “Want to get food?”
He’s already eaten but he agrees to come along for the ride. For the thrill of watching me stuff my face with food. For the pleasure of my drunken company. For the intrigue: how is it possible someone can get drunk so fast off so little? Look at me, I’m soooooo mysterious! Drives men wild!
“Dumplings,” I say, quickly making a food decision for once in my life, “I want dumplings! I think there’s a place down the street!”
We get there and FUCK! It’s closed! Exhausted by food decision #1, I’m not sure I have the strength to do it again! Just when I start to give up hope, an illuminated sign beckons me through my drunken, food-deprived haze. “FALAFEL! SOLD!” I yell and all but run towards the sign. The shop is a hipster, so East Village version of Subway. What Pinkberry is to froyo, this place is to fried chickpeas. A salad bar of topping options, whatever you point at, they will put on your falafel!
I want everything. “Lettuce! Tomato! Hummus! BEETS! Tabuli! Yogurt dressing! Hot sauce but JUST A LITTLE! Pickles? I love pickles…but on falafel? OOOH! CAN YOU PUT THEM ON THE SIDE? YOU CAN?? OMG THIS IS THE BEST!” My date is somehow still with me, standing by my side chuckling. Seems to find this hilarious. I don’t blame him. “Are you going to get anything?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“Want a pickle?”
“You’re so excited about them, I couldn’t possibly!”
This was the correct response. I eat all the pickles while they wrap up my order. Now I have horrendous pickle breath on a first date! Hahahaha! I don’t even care!
My date some how still wants to hang out with me. We walk to Union Square and sit on a bench. I unwrap that falafel faster than you can say CHEAP DATE. I bite into it and ahhhhhhhh it is SO GOOD. I spend the rest of the evening stuffing my face while he tells me stories about his cat. There is no goodnight kiss. We hug. I doubt I’ll ever him again. I don’t really care.
The next day he sends me this text:
This is the post-date text dreams are made of.
It came from a guy who watched me order falafel like a drunken maniac and then stuff said falafel in my face. Holy shit, are these the dating secrets I’ve been missing!? I mean, I could twist it into something about honesty and just be yourself. Vom. No.
Get drunk, stuff your face. No playing it cool, just being really fucking cool. Yeah, that’s me.