In the dating world, some people consider the coffee date to be date number one. I have it on good authority from my gay boyfriend, that the whole coffee date thing is just basically checking each other out. If a man makes it though my fifteen minute test, then we can move on to real date number one.
Believe it or not, even I fall prey to a bad date. Man magnet that I am.
This man made the cut, and we agreed to dinner. He was a little older than me, rather serious, graying hair, seemed to be fairly in shape. He was a dentist, divorced 3 years. Blue eyes. I patted myself on the back for not making a comment about what I've always called "divorced dentist cars," because sure enough, he drove one; a fire-engine-red Porsche Carrera. Talking with him, at coffee, I felt a twinge of misgiving- which I promptly blew off as nerves. Surely this one was fine.
We met in a town near the towns in which we lived. It was a cute little Italian place I was familiar with, casual and warm atmosphere, good food. I sat in the lobby and waited. And waited. And waited. After fifteen minutes, I picked up my bag and was just getting up to leave when he came flying through the front door, harried and a bit disheveled. "Hi," he said. "Sorry I'm late. My bitch of an ex-wife was on the phone, whining as usual about how I don't give her enough money. Doesn't matter how much I give her, it's never enough. Hell- I paid to get the bags taken out from under her eyes, and bought her huge boobs- you'd think that would be enough, but no. Then she had to have liposuction. She has to have botox every couple of months. Lines filled in around her mouth. The lips made bigger. Her hair needs to be highlighted and colored, and now she's adding extensions. And she gets her nails done every other week."
His ex-wife sounded like a really high-maintenance type of woman, but at least he finally stopped talking about her. I'm pretty low maintenance. I get a manicure and a pedicure every other week. Get my hair cut every six or seven weeks. Get a facial every couple of months. No wonder I'm not aging so well. Don't have the plastic surgeon on speed dial. "Shall we go get our table?" I said. I was pretty hungry.
Once seated, I attacked the bread basket. Divorced Dentist watched me with fascination. His ex-wife never ate bread. Or carbs of any sort. Or, I gather, food. She was a size 0, except for her gargantuan breasts. "She is," he said, "perfection." Meanwhile, he was hitting the red wine with gusto. And, damn it, he was still talking about her. Mostly because I was chewing and listening.
As we got through our salads, I think the wine started affecting him. He started getting- oh, I don't know, morose. I was busy eating and listening to him when suddenly I heard him sniffle. I looked up, and to my horror, say a tear drop off the end of his nose onto his salad plate. Uncomfortable, I quickly looked back down at my own food. Shit, shit, shit. Do I just have "SUCKER" written all over me, or something? Not to be insensitive, but really, I'm tired of dealing with men who have emotional issues.
The best was yet to be.
The waiter served out entrees- we were both having Linguine with clams. He took two bites, put down his fork and spoon, and announced, "I think I'm going to kill myself."
The linguine wasn't that bad. I looked up mid-chew, and realized the guy wasn't kidding. Damn. I really was hungry, and now I had to put down my fork and be sympathetic, and caring. Well, the hell with that- the guy was nuts, his ex-wife was nuts, and I was nuts to be out with him, but above all else, I was hungry. I continued to eat. He continued to talk about how he was going to end it all.
"I just don't get any joy out of anything, any more. No pleasure. I hate my job. I hate everyone. I would be better off dead. I'm thinking a knife across the forearm -" he pantomimed from his wrist to his elbow- "might be the quickest, but really messy. I don't know about hanging.... Pills might be somewhat painless, but what if I choke on my bile and don't die? I could shoot myself, but then, I'd have to get a gun." I tried to make sympathy sounds though my food, but at one point I miscalculated and a clam fell out of my mouth into my lap. He was so wrapped up in misery and self-pity that he didn't even notice. Actually, I don't think he noticed me the entire evening. Finally, I had had enough. I grabbed my bag, told him I was going to the bathroom. He kept talking to his food- I'm not sure he even noticed I was gone. Or, that I bypassed the bathroom, went out to my car, and just went home.
I never did find out what happened to him. Hopefully he got back together with his ex- I think they deserve each other. I sent him an e-mail apology- told him I got really freaked out about how I could never measure up to the beauty of his ex, so I ran for it. I never heard back from him.
Believe it or not, even I fall prey to a bad date. Man magnet that I am.
This man made the cut, and we agreed to dinner. He was a little older than me, rather serious, graying hair, seemed to be fairly in shape. He was a dentist, divorced 3 years. Blue eyes. I patted myself on the back for not making a comment about what I've always called "divorced dentist cars," because sure enough, he drove one; a fire-engine-red Porsche Carrera. Talking with him, at coffee, I felt a twinge of misgiving- which I promptly blew off as nerves. Surely this one was fine.
We met in a town near the towns in which we lived. It was a cute little Italian place I was familiar with, casual and warm atmosphere, good food. I sat in the lobby and waited. And waited. And waited. After fifteen minutes, I picked up my bag and was just getting up to leave when he came flying through the front door, harried and a bit disheveled. "Hi," he said. "Sorry I'm late. My bitch of an ex-wife was on the phone, whining as usual about how I don't give her enough money. Doesn't matter how much I give her, it's never enough. Hell- I paid to get the bags taken out from under her eyes, and bought her huge boobs- you'd think that would be enough, but no. Then she had to have liposuction. She has to have botox every couple of months. Lines filled in around her mouth. The lips made bigger. Her hair needs to be highlighted and colored, and now she's adding extensions. And she gets her nails done every other week."
His ex-wife sounded like a really high-maintenance type of woman, but at least he finally stopped talking about her. I'm pretty low maintenance. I get a manicure and a pedicure every other week. Get my hair cut every six or seven weeks. Get a facial every couple of months. No wonder I'm not aging so well. Don't have the plastic surgeon on speed dial. "Shall we go get our table?" I said. I was pretty hungry.
Once seated, I attacked the bread basket. Divorced Dentist watched me with fascination. His ex-wife never ate bread. Or carbs of any sort. Or, I gather, food. She was a size 0, except for her gargantuan breasts. "She is," he said, "perfection." Meanwhile, he was hitting the red wine with gusto. And, damn it, he was still talking about her. Mostly because I was chewing and listening.
As we got through our salads, I think the wine started affecting him. He started getting- oh, I don't know, morose. I was busy eating and listening to him when suddenly I heard him sniffle. I looked up, and to my horror, say a tear drop off the end of his nose onto his salad plate. Uncomfortable, I quickly looked back down at my own food. Shit, shit, shit. Do I just have "SUCKER" written all over me, or something? Not to be insensitive, but really, I'm tired of dealing with men who have emotional issues.
The best was yet to be.
The waiter served out entrees- we were both having Linguine with clams. He took two bites, put down his fork and spoon, and announced, "I think I'm going to kill myself."
The linguine wasn't that bad. I looked up mid-chew, and realized the guy wasn't kidding. Damn. I really was hungry, and now I had to put down my fork and be sympathetic, and caring. Well, the hell with that- the guy was nuts, his ex-wife was nuts, and I was nuts to be out with him, but above all else, I was hungry. I continued to eat. He continued to talk about how he was going to end it all.
"I just don't get any joy out of anything, any more. No pleasure. I hate my job. I hate everyone. I would be better off dead. I'm thinking a knife across the forearm -" he pantomimed from his wrist to his elbow- "might be the quickest, but really messy. I don't know about hanging.... Pills might be somewhat painless, but what if I choke on my bile and don't die? I could shoot myself, but then, I'd have to get a gun." I tried to make sympathy sounds though my food, but at one point I miscalculated and a clam fell out of my mouth into my lap. He was so wrapped up in misery and self-pity that he didn't even notice. Actually, I don't think he noticed me the entire evening. Finally, I had had enough. I grabbed my bag, told him I was going to the bathroom. He kept talking to his food- I'm not sure he even noticed I was gone. Or, that I bypassed the bathroom, went out to my car, and just went home.
I never did find out what happened to him. Hopefully he got back together with his ex- I think they deserve each other. I sent him an e-mail apology- told him I got really freaked out about how I could never measure up to the beauty of his ex, so I ran for it. I never heard back from him.
It was pretty crummy of me to leave like that. I'm just sorry I didn't take my pasta with me.
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