This Guy's the Limit

The top is better than the bottom. High is better than low. Up is better than down. Gravity keeps us grounded as much as it steals our heads from the clouds and drags us back down to earth...to reality. So, when B asked if I wanted to meet for drinks at the TOP of the Hancock Building, everything I'd ever learned about being "high up top" led me to accept. I fought the little voice in my head that said, "I'm sorry...you live in Chicago, right? Why don't you throw on some white Keds, an 'I heart the Windy City' zip-up hoodie and make a dinner reso at Uno's? Yeah, head on up to the Signature Lounge and enjoy the view. Tourist."

But, sometimes, you have to be a tourist in your own city. You have to get a completely different perspective. You have to see a completely different view. I was game.

It was a foggy day so the "view" was hazy, clouded and left something to be desired. But, in the distance, I could make out the Rock 'N Roll McDonald's.

"Look!" I yelled and pointed in the direction of the golden arches. "McDonald's!"

I could feel the tourist in me screaming to escape all the way from the imaginary Keds on my feet up to the Windy City-lovin' hoodie on my head. What was I doing? I chalked it up to nervousness...and nostalgia for cheeseburger Happy Meals. The blonde, Eastern European waitress made her way to our table to take our drink order. I went with my signature drink...seeing as though we were at the Signature Lounge (see what I did there? That's called bad journalism). Goose dirty martini up with three blue cheese olives.

"Yeah...I'll have the same," nodded B. Huh, I thought to myself. I really expected him to go with a Labatt Blue draft beer but he was quite the fancy man, it seemed.

Let's back up for a moment.

B is a hockey player. And that really doesn't mean much one way or the other to me. I don't have a problem with it but I'm also not a fiend for it the way that some women are. They hear the word "stick" and lose their minds. I hear the word "hockey" and hope their car/apartment/room/jacket doesn't smell like a locker room. So, although B was wearing clean clothing and didn't smell like the depths of hell (also known as the inside of a hockey glove), his hair resembled a cropped version of a "business in the front, party in the back" 'do. And so did his vocabulary.

I'm the first to admit that half of the words I say are abbreviations, derivations of movie quotes and sometimes, just plain made up. But, acceptance is the first step. Or is it the second? Perhaps denial is the first. Wait, what? Yes. Denial is the first. And that's the river B was riding on. De. Nial. His incorrect assignment of definitions to words that didn't deserve them was both confusing and entertaining. I held back asking if he had always used "affluent" to describe people who spoke Spanish well...or just when referring to the VP in his office. On the flip side, I watched as he shifted in his seat uncomfortably when I used words with more than three syllables and let out what I can only describe as an incredibly bad, and not-at-all practiced, forced guffaw on five or six occasions.

As I reached my third blue cheese olive, it became clear to me that B and I weren't on the same level...of any floor...in any building. I could tell that he felt the same. But we both knew that if one of us ended the date at one drink, it would be more awkward than both of us pushing through a second one.

Helga stopped by again and we ordered two glasses of the Malbec. The fog cleared slightly. I pointed out the McDonald's again. I'm serious. Finger pointing. Childlike excitement on my face. Traffic copter announcing. B responded with, "Wow, you must really like McDonald's."

Our wine arrived. I asked if he grew up with any pets.

"Nah. I'm not really a pet person. I mean, dogs are alright, but I would never get one."

My childlike McFlurry-spotting excitement drained from my face as my eyes squinted into what I can only assume looked like a combination of confusion, anger and disgust.

"So...when you see a dog on the street...you feel nothing?" I asked matter-of-factly, in the most casual way I could muster.

"Nah. I'm not really a dog person."

At that moment, in the baritone vibrato of Dennis Haysbert, the voice inside my head said, "we're done here."

We blew through a few more questions that neither of us cared to know the answer to and finished our glasses of Malbec in under seven minutes flat. Helga was impressed. She dropped off the bill and scurried away with the evidence.

I faked a reach for my wallet and he faked not being annoyed to pay Hancock prices for a whole lot of nothing. Take my advice, people. Do not go on a first date on the 95th floor of a building. Because the ride down from a bad one lasts an eternity.

As we walked outside, each of our half hugs added up to a first and final goodbye. The Signature Room's Tagline is "The sky's the limit." But in the case of my date with B, it was 950 feet.

The Poisonous Nut

My mom has passed on great life lessons to me over the years: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you; never brush your hair in public; respect your elders (unless they're a-holes); no outfit is complete without lipstick. And she was right. About all of these gems of wisdom. 

So, when she told me I was being irrational by writing off a guy ("S") simply because he went to Ohio State, I took (reluctant and forced) pause.


For those of you who don't know, I hate Ohio State. I realize "hate" is a strong word. And that's exactly why I'm using it. I hate the institution, the football team, the former and current coach. Hell, I hate the state of Ohio. Do you know what their mascot, a "Buckeye," is? It's a poisonous nut. Seriously. When they hired Urban Meyer as their head football coach a few months ago, @ESPN_BigTen tweeted: Is Ohio State ready for a rock-star coach?


I responded with this: I guess if "rock star" is a euphemism for "felonious," then yes.


But, perhaps I was being too harsh on S. The reality is: If I were a hiring manager, I would scan S's resume, be impressed by his professional accolades and personal interests only to come to the end of the first page where "college attended" was located; whereupon I would immediately feed S's resume directly into my shredder. This is behavior Webster would define as "discriminatory." And is one of the many reasons I can never be in HR. 


I once saw an ESPN commercial about a Michigan/Ohio State couple; and my friend's cousin's ex-boyfriend's step aunt went to Michigan and married a dude from that school in Ohio. So, that must mean that these couples must exist. Right?


I was determined to find out. 


S and I met for drinks at the Long Room, a cool, hole-in-the-wall bar that has an amazing beer selection. The interior was much cooler than its exterior. (Which turned out to be the exact opposite reality of my date, S.) 


We exchanged some introductory niceties and began to mull over the menu. It was huge. It went on forever. I honed in on the Michigan beer section and bit my tongue just before I was about to let out a taunting Ohio State jab. No, I thought to myself. You don't even have your beer yet. Just try to be mature. 


When our beers arrived, S and I held our pints of frosty brew up and clinked glasses, "To maturity!" (Side note: Before our date we agreed to act like bigger people than we actually were and avoid discussions around our schools.) 

So, we talked. I learned that he does analytical research or something or another for Careerbuilder.com and he does Improv on the side. You know, he’s one of those people who says, “If I could do anything, I would be a performer.” [Insert four-second beer chug.] I knew this was going to be a challenge…because I AM a performer…I just don’t get paid for it. He has one sibling (married w/ a kid); parents have been married for 30-something years...and they ALL live in Ohio. (When he told me this, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar and it looked as if I had taken a bite out of lemon. I’m pretty sure he noticed.)

I tried my hardest to avoid talking about/bashing Ohio State, but instead wound up bashing Ohio as a State. (The doctor still hasn't called with the results from my Sports Tourettes test, but it's not looking good. And as far as the medical community knows, there is no known cure.)

We pushed through to our second beer and even did a “you pick my next beer and I’ll pick yours” game, to which he declined my first two selections for him. So, that went well. I spent a good deal of time defending Bell’s Brewery and my Mexican restaurant choices in Chicago…he’s not a fan of El Tapatio. I was pretty much done at that point.

But then came the clincher. The real icing on the cake. 

He never went to Ohio State. 

He went to Miami of Ohio.

Don't get me wrong, I have no real problem with Miami of Ohio (besides the fact that it's located in Ohio and has the word "Ohio" in it). Heck, Nick Lachey went there and he married an amazing woman.

However, studies show that the ONLY thing worse than an Ohio State grad is an Ohio State fan who did NOT got to Ohio State. I had reached my threshold of Sports-Tourettes-challenged maturity. We closed our tab. 

When we walked outside, S offered me a ride home. Wow, I thought. This guy is more of a masochist that I am. [Insert one full minute of back and forth –“I can take a cab” “Are you sure? I can drive you.” “Are you sure? I can take a cab.”] Anyone watching this conversation would have passed out from boredom. I finally gave in. When we walked up to his car and it was a Toyota Camry, my Automotive Facts Tourettes kicked in.

“Hey…S? Did you get the recall yet? How are the breaks on this bad boy?” 

Needless to say, when he dropped me off, there was no mention of a second date.

The next day, I sent a text which I’m sure was the final nail in the coffin: “Had a great time last night. Thanks for the beers and (acceleration-controlled) ride home.”

I haven’t heard from him. And I never will.

In closing, I don't think S realized at the time – nor do I think he even fully realizes today – but regardless of alma mater, he is the true definition of a buckeye...in every sense of the word. 

Striking Out

When I was 18 and then 21 and then 24, I viewed New Year's Eve as a magical night. A night where the possibilities were endless. Where the mistakes and mishaps, hiccups and hook ups, loves and jobs lost would magically dissipate into the cool, crisp night air. And when that clock struck midnight, Cinderella didn't lose her pumpkin - or her killer gown and updo - but instead, I had the possibility of finding my prince. I drank the New Year's Eve Kool-Aid. All 130 bucks or so of what each of these potentially life-changing nights cost me...at 18....and then 21...and then 24. 

Until I moved to Chicago. 

That is when I quickly learned that New Year's Eve is the night you have to get through in order to get to the real deal: New Year's Day. And it was on a very special New Year's Day in 2009 that I met P. He was everything I wanted on paper...tall, great hair, Big Ten alum, Seven jeans, Belgian beer in hand...could the Heavens have finally aligned to bring me a boy with the Three B's? What are the "Three B's" you ask? I'll tell you. Big Ten, Belgian beer and...wait for it...bowling. Now, how, you ask again, did I find out that he was into bowling upon our first meeting at a very special dive bar in Lincoln Park? Because, I respond. I'm sick. That's why. 

In college, I became somewhat of a regular at Colonial Lanes - the epitome of a townie bowling alley. And this was back when you could still smoke indoors. So, it gave "townie" and "alley" epic new meanings. I used to walk in, gangsta-style flick my chin up at the first waitress I saw, wink (which stood for 2 pitchers of Miller Lite at my table stat), grab my shoes from Billy behind the counter and start the hunt for my strike ball (10 lbs) and spare ball (12 lbs). Yes, I was a regular. Yes, I used bowling terminology such as "rolling," "PDW," and getting a "gobble gobble." Yes, I rolled a 220 at one point and averaged 180. Yes, I had a lane name that I used when I rolled: Thugpassion. Yes, this was all true.

But, note this, my friends. Burn this in your brain as you continue on with the rest of my story: I did NOT own my own ball. I figured it was a slippery slope. Once I committed to a ball, there was no telling how many times a week I would be at Colonial. I had visions of myself dropping out of school, buying a quaint house/trailer a few blocks from the alley and spending my days rolling game after game, soon forgetting what daylight looked or felt like. I'd raise my children, Converse and Levi, there with their father close by my side as he deejayed cosmic bowling. Slippery slope.

So, I resisted the urge to buy my own ball. I remained a "casual bowler."

My first date with P was set. We were headed to Southport Lanes, the hot spot for the casual bowler. I say this because it is 80% restaurant/bar and 20% bowling alley. The bowling alley length is not up to regulation standards (yes, I know this) and they don’t have mechanical arms that reset pins mid-roll. They have dudes who smoke pot at lunch and stand behind the backs of the lanes with PBR in one hand and cane in the other. They reset the pins when they feel like it (or when you yell, “A little help here?!”). They can be bribed. If you’re not doing well, simply stuff a few dollar bills into your bowling ball thumb hole and pretty soon everything’s coming up roses. Or in bowling terms: you’re throwing down strikes. In other words, it’s not real bowling. At all. I thought it would be better this way because I’m extremely competitive. Like certifiably competitive. So, I thought I was doing myself and P a service by picking a fake bowling alley with real alcohol.

I thought.

I arrived on time, ponied up to the bar and ordered a beer. P arrived a good ten minutes later. I was less peeved by his tardiness when he sheepishly, and somewhat secretively, made his way to my bar stool. His hands were behind his back. Oh em gee. Did he bring me flowers?! Or a bottle of Patron? I was stunned and excited. This guy is legit! I knew Big Ten was the way to go! That was, until I saw what was really behind his back.

HE BROUGHT HIS OWN BALL.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell here, but seriously?

1.     When your date also shows up with a purse, you’re in trouble

2.     When that purse has a 12 lb personalized bowling ball in it, you’re in bigger trouble

My reaction fell somewhere between confused and horrified. His reaction was pure horrification.

“I thought this was like a legit bowling alley! Not a bar slash bowling alley,” P squealed, attempting to shift his bowling ball bag under his trench coat.

“Yeah…not so much.” I slowly responded…not really offering much help to his plight. I mean, have you ever heard of the Google? Do a little recon before you don accessories to your first date, brah.

We made our way over to the two lanes with our rented shoes (I guess he didn’t want to bring a full workout bag on the Brown Line) and set up shop.

The next 32 minutes were painful. P threw gutter ball after gutter ball.

“What’s on these lanes? It’s like oil or something. Or butter! What the $%#*”

“Yeah…I’m not sure,” I replied. “My house ball seems to be handling the lane just fine.”

This only served to further infuriate P. I gave him a $5 bill to send down the lane. He took it. And he still lost. Even after the pot-smoking, PBR-drinking dude used his cane to knock down strike after strike. I guess when you strike out early on, there’s no coming back from it. (Yep. That’s what we writers call a parallelism.)

Turns out, P was also certifiably competitive. Folks, when two certifiably competitive people compete, one person wins and the other person gives themselves a hernia.

After losing handily in bowling, P’s rage had made its way from his bowling hand to a pulsating vein on his forehead. “You shoot pool? Let’s do this. Rematch!”

Holy hell, I thought, this guy was nuts. I was immediately attracted to him again.

We headed to the pool tables and racked the balls. I pride myself on knowing my way around Billiards, but that particular night was not my night when it came to pool. Ball after ball, P shot them with such force into pocket after pocket (while also yelling out, “Yes!” “Suck it” and “Booyah!”) that I turned into the one who was no longer having fun. Around ball four of his run on the table, P excused himself for a bathroom break. I immediately summoned the waitress over and took shots of Patron with her.

The night ended shortly after our pool game. We couldn’t exactly go to another bar…because of the excess baggage.

So, we walked outside and hailed two cabs heading in the same direction.

P yelled over the top of his cab door, body half hanging out of the car, “Welp…that was…so, have a great…yeah.”

It was his best strike of the night. 

Slow Dating

I have experience. Life experience. Work experience. Dating experience. Yet, I hadn’t tried – nor was I prepared for – speed dating. In theory, it’s genius. But, in reality – like most other genius ideas – it didn’t quite live up to its tag line. I’ve done the bar thing, the online dating thing, the “no, but seriously, this time this guy is GREAT”-friends-with-good-intentions-amateur-matchmaking thing. Some have lasted longer than others. But, this speed dating novelty really seemed like it could work. 15 guys, 15 girls, five minute mini-dates. Genius.

Let’s be honest. We all know within five minutes whether or not we want to continue talking to someone. This is why the bar thing has been as popular as it has for so long. Let’s review: you walk up to a bar, order a drink, turn to Random Dude #1 on your right and make a visual assessment: cute; hell no; married (why do they let them outside?!); too short; tall enough; bad shoes; nice jeans; dad? Guys can fall into more than one of these categories. But after that 5-10 second assessment, you’re ready to a: flirt or b: walk away. And either option flies.


When you go on a blind date, you’re stuck for at least the length of time it takes to drink one cocktail and wait for your waitress to bring the bill. (Side note: why is it that when you’re on a terrible date, the waitress is never anywhere to be found? Ever. There should be a special pager that waitresses wear, where pager code 9-1-1 stands for “get me the hell out of here.”)


Okay, where were we? Right. Speed dating. Genius idea because you cut out the unnecessary full-length date with Mr. Not-gonna-happen. So, I was psyched.


I brought with me two friends whose proclaimed intention was not to participate, but to sit at the bar nearby and hold up cards w/ a rating system: 10 for “lock it down” to 1 for “get up and run.” I vetoed that particular plan but was happy to have them there as my moral support squad. When we showed up to the venue, it was a cross between a really ghetto airport bar (appropriately populated with middle-aged men pounding beers until the last possible moment before they had to depart for their flight) and a sad corporate cafeteria. The name of the place was French…but the décor and atmosphere were much more Franglish. This was bad sign #1.


Bad sign #2: The looks on the faces of the women ranged from complacent to trepidatious to desperate. The guys looked like the junior class of Northwestern’s chemistry department.


Bad sign #3: There were 14 women and ten men. Let me back up a bit. A few days before the speed dating event, the registration for women closed because it was full. Lucky (unlucky) for me, I made it in under the wire. Curiously, I looked at future speed dating events set up for the next month. ALL of the spots for women were full. So, are we desperate or are we desperate? That’s the real question.


I sat down and as the men filed in, I took a bigger swig from my pint of Matilda, and I made direct and determined eye contact with the waitress that telepathically translated, “I’m gonna need another one…like now.” She understood. The first broseph to sit at my table looked like he was really looking for the National Junior Honor Society Convention. I ventured a mental guess that he was around 17 (although I knew that the minimum age of this shindig was 21). He was 24. Not too far off. We made some extremely awkward and forced introductions, which included a mild disagreement about what road the McCormick Convention Center was actually located on. With all his gesticulating, I noticed a gold band on his left ring finger. “Say what?” was my first thought. “Are you married?” is what I actually asked the NJHS rep.


“No!” he exclaimed – either offended or flattered…I couldn’t tell which one. “This is a promise ring.” Yep, I nodded to myself. Of course it was.


“And who did you make the promise to? Your mother or your father?”


He looked me square in the eyes, slowly clasped his hands together on the table, leaned slightly forward and with conviction and reverence replied, “To God.”


Well alrighty then – it was gonna be hard to compete with that.


His next line of questioning centered around my preferred radio stations. I informed him that I don’t have any…because I don’t have a car…and I have iTunes and Spotfiy. All of those words were lost on him. We sat in silence for 20 seconds, both looked out the window and said in unison, “Look! It’s raining!”


The next three or four men struggled with the English language. To their credit, they had only moved to the United States three or four years ago. I helped one of them learn the difference between “their” and “they’re.” And let’s be honest, that grammatical anomaly trips up even the most seasoned English-speaking vet. The rest were a handful of Midwestern boys of average height, average looks and average personalities. And by my highly scientific mathematical calculations, that averaged out to nada.


I did, however, meet three other lovely ladies who also came up with the same answer to the aforementioned mathematical equation. We exchanged cards and tried keep our voices down as we exclaimed, “I mean, REALLY? [Insert half cry, half laugh.] REALLY?”


I returned to my moral support squad, deep into their third and fourth cocktails. They showed me the photos they took of me chatting with #4 and #6. They gave me the old, “you never know until you try” speech so we could justify my 30 dollar spend on ten bad dates instead of three awesome cocktails. They pointed out the trash can where I then, immediately, deposited my speed date selection sheet.


In conclusion, speed dating – like most other genius ideas – did not in fact live up to its tag line. So, will I ever do it again? My unwavering answer: only if two drinks are included.

The Email that Started it All

From: Sallie

To: Erin

Subj: How was the date with RayHer?

Reader, to give you a little background, RayHer (name has been shortened to protect identity...and any possibility of dating in the future) is a guy I met while out one night with my friend Sallie. We went on one date. ONE. I'll leave it at that and let you learn the rest for yourself below.

Note: All facts in this story are true and have not been embellished or exaggerated. I literally COULD NOT make this stuff up.

MY RESPONSE:

Sallie,

It was good...he picked me up from work and we went to this sushi place in...Lakeview? It was Lincoln and Irving Park called Tank. It was really fantastic, but I was sort of surprised he picked it b/c we went to Second City afterwards. Now, you know I am the planner and like to offer my opinion, but I was really trying to hold my tongue and let him go w/ his plan. (There are about 50 amazing restaurants within 2 blocks of Second City in Old Town. Why were we going so far north?)

So, we drove from my office all the way to Lincoln and Iriving Park and then all the way back down to North and Wells. Whatever.

These are the things I took issue with:

• The sticker on the back window of his very nice Toyota Tacoma truck is of a kid urinating on the New York Yankees logo. Was he serious?
• When he pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant, he parked between two cars in a very tight spot (no joke, there were FIFTY open spots in the lot). I had to shimmy out of the passenger side door. I actually couldn't keep quiet about that one. E: "Wow...this is a tight spot. You see the FIFTY other spots that are open, right?" RayHer: "Yeah, but it will be so much easier to get out afterwards." E: [confused look] (I'm sorry, are we at a Pistons game? Why again do we need an easy out from a restaurant parking lot on a Monday night in frickin' Lakeview...when we came out, no one had parked in any of the empty spots)
• As soon as we sat down, he said, "So, what do you want to get?" He wasn't even talking about a drink, he was talking about the sushi...I don't think I had even taken my coat off yet. In his defense, he was pretty nervous.

I will synopsize the dinner snafus using numbered bullets:

1. He slammed the glass of Sake we each got...very hard to do since it was served in a champagne flute
2. When the waitress delivered the Saki (and his beer), he told her we were ready to order while she was holding a tray in one hand and an empty bottle in the other...she said, "Just let me go grab her beer first." Seriously RayHer? She hasn't even dropped my drink off yet...and you're a freakin' server. Give her a second. Oh, and he poured what was left of his beer in the glass and then chugged the rest out of the bottle. (Not sure I hid my mortification well.)
3. I started asking questions and found out that he's never been to a festival in the summer in Chicago...he's lived here for three years
4. He grew up "not really listening to music" and "doesn't really care for concerts"...CHECK PLEASE!
5. He ordered a second beer...I wasn't even half way through mine
6. Kept looking at his phone for the time b/c the show started at 8. Hmmmm...maybe we shouldn't have driven to Canada for dinner

Back to bullets...

• Okay, so we get back in the car for the road trip back down south. I shimmy back into my seat...probably rubbing salt and dirt all over my beautiful black coat
• Music comes on the radio and I say, "Do you know who this is?" He can't figure it out. Seriously? It's Aerosmith "Livin' on the Edge." I listened to that CD 3,000 times in middle school. This guessing game occurs a few more times (Really? "Jungle Love" by Steve Miller Band doesn't ring a bell? Let me out of this car)
• We get to the theater. He parks in a spot that I don't think is a spot. He does. He claims he's never gotten a ticket. Fine. Park there then. Get towed.
• Oh, forgot to mention that on the ride to dinner and at dinner, he mentioned about 200 times how much he had to drink last night...and that he totally didn't even feel it. "I mean, I was ordering like triple vodka tonics, three at a time at our open bar work party and I was totally fine...like totally. I remember everything...I mean, when I got home, I fell asleep for an hour and then, when I woke up, I puked. But I was totally fine." (I was like, "Did he just tell me that story?")
• Second City was FANTASTIC. They were so funny. RayHer had three Jack and Cokes. He would actually grab the waiter and order them while the show was going on...and not even ask if I wanted a drink. Not cool
• Mid-way through, he started to do the hand on knee, holding my hand, we're in a relationship thing. The most awkward part was his insistence on putting his arm around me b/c he's not very tall and I had to slouch in order for it to "work." I was like, give me some space! I'm trying to watch the show here! I felt like I was in middle school planning to break up w/ a boy, but needed a ride home from the mall from his mom, so had to suck it up.
• Afterwards, I asked him to drop me off at Midas (very hot, I know) b/c my brakes had been worked on and my car was ready to be picked up. I'd take any short cut out of this date...even if it involved a car repair shop parking lot.

So, although he is a very nice guy and paid for everything...it's just not going to work. There are a few things that my seem minor, but in the grand scheme, would make me lose my shiz over time. So, I have to figure out how to fade him out. I asked what days he usually works at the restaurant. He may have thought I was trying to see when he was free. But, I wanted to make sure we can still hit up the $4 burgers and beers on Thursdays at the bar. We can. He's off on Thursdays.

So, that's that. I have a date at Maeve at 8:00 w/ a 24 year-old tonight. As long as he doesn't talk about binge drinking and puking, he may be able to pull out ahead in the race.

xoxo,

E

Falling Just Short

Running late for a first, blind date is a sure-fire way, in my case, to give the guy a preview of things to come. In my defense, I’ve gotten better over time. I’ve embraced the numbers. I’ve learned that SAT questions do have their place in real life: If you have 5 minutes to spare before you need to be at Location A, and you choose to “fit something in” that takes 15 minutes at Location B, how pissed are your friends going to be on a scale of 1 to 10? The answer varies on this one. But, when I arrived at Justin’s Beer Garden (an actual bar and not a friend’s man cave) a full 15 minutes late, hair wind blown in a wind tunnel sort of way, looking like a bag lady with my oversized purse and workout bag in hand, I was mortified.

Until I saw my date.

To give him credit, he was wearing the red shirt he informed me ahead of time he’d be sporting, but there was no mention of the “I’m a tourist and comfort is #1” tennies. I’m not talking cute, trendy, casual-chic New Balances. These were white running shoes. And they had seen better days. The first thought that popped into my head was, “Well, if you weren’t even going to take the time to get dressed, I would have left my heels in the cab and rocked my Havaianas.” But, I had banked the calories of an Oberon into my allotted caloric intake that day, so I forged on.

His nervousness was palpable. It’s hard not to notice when the table is shaking from the person’s leg bucking beneath it. Throughout the evening, he kept reaching into his pocket for what I thought was his cell phone, but nothing ever emerged. Lucky Match.com blind date rabbit foot? I still don’t know.

Regardless, it’s an unsettling thing to watch someone do in excess. The waitress took our drink order and told us about the specials…which included 2-for-1 burgers. At this, my eyes lit up and I may have even leaned in to show my interest. He did not have the same reaction. It was pretty much at that point that I decided I was ready to order my 2-for-1 burgers to go and watch Next Food Network Star on my couch in sweatpants. But, I stayed…and thought about all of the friends I could bring to Justin’s next Tuesday for this amazing deal.

The more and more dates I go on, the more I discover that those traits I’ve decided a guy “must have” start to lose their attractiveness when in excess. For example, too often, I’ve dated guys who just sort of sat back and observed…not saying much, even when asked to say anything. A guy that can hold up his end of the telephone tin can is great. But, in this case, I started to get annoyed. With myself. The number of times I heard my voice uttering “uh huh,” “wow,” “hmh” exceeded the number of times the Beastie Boys sing “jump” in their song appropriately titled, “Jump.” It was a mean game of verbal Double Dutch where my attempts to insert comments, reactions, questions or – can you believe it – facts about myself became too tiring. I sat back, Oberon in hand, and listened to his oral autobiography.

Almost two hours in, my second Oberon sitting abandoned and warm, I wished that I had pulled the waitress aside at the beginning. You know, to work out a sign or a gesture to let her know that it was time to drop the check and move us on our way. Every time she came by, his response grated on my ears: “We’re okay…right now.” I wanted to rip those “right now’s” right out of their conversation bubbles and scream, “We’re all set!” Which I eventually did, with slightly more restraint. I even, to cushion the blow of my blatant readiness to be dunzo, went as far as to say, “I’m just getting so old. I’m exhausted.” Really? I have maybe two years on this kid and I’m AARP’ing it? But, at that point, I was desperate. I would have lied and said I needed to go home to relieve the babysitter.

As we stood from our seats to leave, I observed that his 5’9” status was about 3 inches off…in the wrong direction. But, he was a gentleman; as much of a gentleman as a 26 year-old is capable of being. As he acted out each chivalrous behavior, he verbalized it. That’s right. He was like a new actor that didn’t realize you aren’t supposed to read the words in the script that are italicized. Those are actions. “I’m going to stand here with you until you get a cab.” Great. I was noticing that…since you were standing here with me…until I get a cab. “I’m going to open the door for you now.” You’re all intelligent people, so I’m just going to assume that you’ve caught on to what his next move was. It was too bad…because those two actions could have been the life preserver that pulled this drowning date out of Lake Match.com. A few of my other dates have merely shouted, “Can you lock it from the inside on your way out?” as I departed. So, this was a step in the right direction.

But, a step was not enough. Back at home, as I laid my head on my pillow and began to dream of 2-for-1 burgers, the sound of a new text message jolted me from my reverie. “Hey! Hope u made it home safe! Hope to see u again soon :).” Letters for words and an emoticon to top it off. [Insert exasperated sigh.]

It was the icing on my date.