OYM Day 51: Catch My Micro-Waves
I need a train of thought writing day. I’m watching a dating show on TV right now. Watching people on first dates gives me so much anxiety. There are some adorable moments, but whew! It’s tough. I’ve been with the same person for 13? 15 years? Long enough to lose count. I can’t imagine if I were in the dating pool right now. First, I would be awful at it. I’m definitely an acquired taste. My jokes are dark and my humor is mostly dead pan, and I’m not…giggly enough? I could just see myself excusing myself to the bathroom and disappearing. A lot. And second, I can barely manage to take a photo of myself. How would I make a dating profile? Whenever I try to take a selfie, I just take one look at myself and think “God, what a creep. What are you doing?”
I have done that a couple of times, actually… snuck out of dates. I had a few years of realllllly bad taste. Before my husband, of course. I met a guy at a bar when I was out with some friends one night. He asked me out on a date and I said sure. We met at another bar the following week. I was probably 22 or something and the bar smelled like stale beer and mop water. We sat at the empty bar and made small talk. The bartender asked for IDs and I probably ordered something stupid, like a whiskey sour. He ordered popcorn, but before he officially placed the order, he asked the bartender if it was made with steam or in a microwave. Like most shit-hole bars, they used a microwave. This spurred a very long and drawn out conversation about microwaves between my date and the bartender. I started to zone out but my ears perked back up when I heard them talking about children in Africa being able to walk through walls because they were exposed to too many micro-waves. This went on for about 30 minutes. He also had a chain wallet. Like I said. Reallll bad taste. I grabbed my purse and excused myself to the bathroom. Then, I went out the kitchen door.
And let me say, I’m sure he is someone’s type. Just not mine. And I’m probably not his. He’s probably happy and doing great and walking through walls all over town!
Back to the story.
My apartment was less than a 10 minute walk away. I got on my phone and texted my best friend that I had just been on the worst date of all time. My plan was to go home, grab a bottle of wine, and take the L over to her apartment. Then we’d spend the evening being wild and free and full of options.
I was in the middle of stuffing my clothes into a bag for my night out when there was a knock at the door.
Fuck.
It was him, I could see through the peep hole. How did he know where I lived?! And then I saw it, in his hands. My ID. I had left it at the bar.
Dating. Right?!
