Extra Spicy, Extra Cheesy
Here we go.
I greet my date with a platonic hug and repeat the mantra in my head “fake it til we make it”. Ready or not I’m once again surfing the waters of the lovelorn. Online dating. I created my TwiddlyWinks.com profile like it was an exercise in marketing. If I’m going to join the meat market then I want to properly market my meat…. errr, my qualities in a way that makes me stand out from the rank and file (whoever the hell they are)? It’s got to be a humble brag that is heavy on the humble and light on the brag. How do I convince a prospective partner that I’m the right guy for them; the right mix of mysterious stranger and approachable gentleman. Young at heart with maturity of mind. I tried to create attractive bullet points of my finest features without writing a bunch of checks I can’t cash. And now’s it’s time to test my marketing skills. Time to shut up and show up. Fake it til we make it.
Young at heart with an adventurous soul
Granted I’d rather be dozing on the couch with my favorite fuzzy blanket, but instead I’m here on a weeknight having dinner close to my normal bedtime and pretending that’s ok. I’ve selected a hole in the wall Mexican place to show that I’m edgy, close to my date’s location to prove that I’m chivalrous. Turns out the ‘hole in the wall’ concept extends to the décor. As much as I claim to be young at heart my eyes are another matter. Dim lights, meant to be romantic, prove to be a challenge for aging vision. Rather than break the illusion with a pair of reading glasses I give up on trying to decipher the beer selection and play it cool by pointing to a neighboring table and proclaiming, “that looks good, I’ll have one of those.” The waiter shrugs, mumbles what sounds vaguely like “horse piss” in Spanish and writes down my order. My date orders something tropical. By the pitcher.
Empathic listener
Putting aside the fact that I’ve been in work meetings all day and my attention span has been whittled down to a jagged splinter, it becomes quickly apparent that my date likes to talk. A lot. Mostly about herself but with occasional tangents chronicling friends and family I will never meet. I attempt to remain fully engaged but find myself trying to clear the mental fog by mechanically remembering when to blink. The conversation takes a weird turn covering her extensive history of past lovers and enumerating the many ways that they’ve all “done her wrong.” I hope the food arrives soon so I can focus less on blinking and more on chewing. “Yes,” I nod, “Men are horrible.”
Avid Outdoorsman
Between gulps off my beverage (which does have an aftertaste reminiscent of horse piss), I notice that the monotonous tirade about ex’s has concluded and she’s now looking at me with raised eyebrows. The conversation about how Andrew the Asshole was a man’s man has shifted to an evaluation of my prowess in the great outdoors. Do I hunt, fish, hike or camp? I mentally stifle a laugh, and try to form a more appropriate response. I’ve been outdoors. I know where it is. I own a pair of hiking boots. They don’t look brand new, nor do they look “seasoned”. I like to go for hikes, but those usually involve clearly marked trails and rarely involve a backpack unless a small child is present. The idea of camping sounds good in theory until you wake for the third time with a stray twig jabbing you in the backside. Any activity that gets judged by the simple question “is this worth missing a night of sleep for?” is probably no longer high on my go-to list. But that’s also not a great answer. Nor do I think the outdoor gym I frequent is worth mentioning. But I have an outdoorsy image to protect so I randomly mention something about snowshoeing up at Northstar and how invigorating the brisk mountain air can be. Nailed it. At the mention of cold she shivers and looks at me expectantly. I look at her now drained pitcher of ice. The heat lamps perched overhead were advertised to make our patio dining cozy, but they only cycle on long enough to entice you with the promise of heat without actually delivering any. To reinforce the chivalry angle, I offer her my jacket and instantly regret it. I again long for my fuzzy blanket.
Omnivore
People are very particular about their food preferences. Vegetarian, vegan, pescatarian, keto, paleo, gluten intolerant, waffle curious. Some preach about their food choices like a zealot spouting end of days prophecy. It’s insane. Listing myself as omnivore was a simple, truthful choice, but I almost want to make a point of how NOT picky I am. So, when they ask if the extra spicy triple cheesy default on the house enchilada is acceptable, I wave it away like it’s nothing and say “sure, bring it on”. And they do.
As she starts in about Greg and how lousy he was in bed I dig into my food so I could start focusing on chewing instead of blinking. By the third bite I no longer feel my tongue and tears start streaming down my face. As far as she’s concerned this is my first open display of empathy. I nod with heartburn-felt emotion.
Generous
When the waiter appears at my side and asks if there will be anything else, I proactively pull out my wallet to cover the check and avoid any confusion. She takes the opportunity to order a fish bowl of top shelf booze with floaty fruit scraps. Also on ice. The idea of ordering another round of horse piss turns my already upset stomach one rotation too far. I hear it go from mild rebellion to full on riot mode. Apparently, my white bread belly is not adventurous enough for extra spicy, extra cheesy and extra pissy. Thoughts turn to which end I may explode from and at what magnitude. As I watch her suck down her entire cocktail, warm and content in my jacket, a shiver runs down my spine. The shivering stirs up the acids forming in my belly and the piss overflowing my bladder. I consider running to the bathroom but fear she might take the opportunity to re-open the tab and order an even larger cocktail. Plus, I’d miss the story about the father of her third child and how he cheated on her with Jessi. Whoever that is.
Carefree
With a final noisy slurp of her empty fishbowl, I jerk my head towards the exit. “We should probably get going”. She looks disappointed but takes the hint and follows me out. The movement helps to thaw my frozen legs and reduce the shivering to controllable vibrations. She tells me she had a really nice time. I tell her I did too. My bowels try to argue the point. An argument growing quickly in volume and intensity. One I will not win. I thank her for coming out, give her a quick hug good night just for the body heat and head quickly for the solidarity of my car.
Once inside I fire up the engine, blast the heater and try to release some gastric pressure from both ends. One solid beer belch and hot salsa fart later I’m feeling as if I might just make it safely back to home base before things get “Bridesmaids” level ugly.
And as I sit there in the parking lot marveling at my own foulness, I wonder what sort of impression I’ve left her with. For all my fancy writing and all my attempts to fake it til I make it did she see any part of me she liked. Granted, I can’t imagine enduring a second date with the woman but on a hypothetical basis I still wonder if I managed to impress her at all. How can I improve the experiment if I have no data to reference? These thoughts are interrupted by a soft tapping on the window. Her smiling face presses against the window as she holds up my jacket for return. Torn between the idea of cracking the seal on my gas keg and leaving a less than ideal final impression, I opt for crazy getaway driver and throw my car into drive as if I didn’t see her. I leave behind me a spray of gravel, an abandoned jacket and another story for her to tell about why men are horrible.
So much for good impressions.
