an unpublished post about a blind date.
Today, I turned on my personal computer for the first time today and stumbled upon a folder full of unpublished blog posts. This gem needed to be shared with you.
This post was written January 2012.
Please know I am laughing so hard. I was a jerk. What is with this intro? Also, I changed the name to protect the identity this poor fella.
Only three years ago I could walk into any bar of my choosing, stare down a man with my big brown eyes, and secure an evening of free drinks. Never the most beautiful, most cunning or the girl with the longest legs my confidence spoke of a girl-next-door who had a knack of jousting a guy with honest, hard-hitting truths. Naturally, my smile framed with subtle dimples would mend my midnight suitor’s ego enough to cool my hands with the glass of an amaretto-sour.
Today, I sit in a pair of Spanx leggings and circa ’92 Reba concert tee shirt grimacing on a blind date gone dreadfully wrong.
As a favor to a now-despised friend, I agreed to a night out with Charles* going against every fiber of my being. In the three months of my newly found singlehood, not a single gentleman had asked for my presence on a date. What could it hurt?
I stood in the doorway, looking down at his petite stature, I felt giant-like in my 5’6” body. His smile was charming, as were the crocs adorning his feet.
The drive to the sports bar was uneventful as I noticed the Yankee Candle air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. Snapping myself out of certain judgment, we arrived at our destination.
He, apparently nervous, downed multiple beverages throughout our dinner. Never an NFL fan, I quickly focused on the Saints and garnered my attention at the punt return and my newly found hatred for anything NOLA.
Bright shiny object syndrome has always been my downfall, and of course, during this date, bright-shiny objects lined the bar with their award winning smiles. Holding in a sigh, I returned my focus to the story Charles was unveiling about his fraternity house he was a member of more than a decade ago.
Small talk is something that comes naturally to me; however, with his fierce eye contact, irrelevant stories lost their importance and inhaling my burger took precedence. This guy was into me, bless his heart, and I was in no way about to give this tiny-man an ounce of false advertising.
We found ourselves in the Club Level of at the local NBA game, where he praised our seat location. Regretting my New Year’s resolution to cut alcohol from my diet, I clinched my hands every time he petted my arm.
I’ve never been so fascinated with a blowout game, thanking my lucky stars every time Westbrook stole the ball or Hardin knocked down a three. Between possessions, I honest-to-goodness tried to focus on the good. He was a nice guy and I was at a sold out game. Except, I wanted to go home where it was safe, and people don’t wear crocs, ever.
He walked me to the door, like any gentleman would do. He told me he had a wonderful time and that we should do it again sometime, followed by requesting my schedule for the upcoming week. Not a natural-born liar, I was thankful my week entailed producing a plethora of photo shoots.
He leaned in for the — I dodged slipping through the front door and kindly shutting it behind me.
I know for certain, the man of my dreams is not a man who agrees to blind dates. He’s confident, intriguing, and, quite frankly, never owned a pair of Crocs in his life.
Someday, he’s going to laugh when I tell him this story.