Another guest post on MetAnotherFrog.com
Oh, yeah, so he showed up EARLY on his white horse and waited patiently for me in my living room while I finished curling my hair. I heard his shiny, silver armor clink and clank on my hardwoods. I was certain he was nosing around on my bookshelves in the repurposed china cabinet that my best friend Devon gave me. Would he be shocked to see the sex education books? More shocked to see all of my middle school and high school yearbooks on the shelves? Nevermind, my hair is nearly perfect. One quick swipe of lipgloss and I sashay into the living room, “Are you ready?” As if I had been waiting on him the entire time.
He opens the door in my kitchen, ignoring the dishes in the sink (he underSTANDS how very busy I am) and I exit like a lady in front of him. As we approach his car, he scurries ahead of me and opens my door. I fidget, alone in the car as he winds his way around to the driver’s side door.
Tonight would be the best date of my life.
Right? Eh, not so much. I can’t say with sincerity that ALL of my dates have been bad. Truthfully, only a handful of them have been so terrible as to sear themselves permanently in my memory, reappearing in nightmares or during cocktail parties to make people laugh. But really, when I stopped to try to think of my best date ever, I was totally empty headed.
There was this one date last year with a guy named Michaelangelo. Seriously, his actual name was Michaelangelo and he insisted I call him that – not Mike, not Michael. I remember when I first met him that the first thought to pop into my head was, “Michaelangelo? Does he expect me to be able to spit out a five-syllable name when I have an orgasm?”
We had a lovely dinner. He wore a vest. He was quite the foodie, having worked as a chef for a number of years and we ate and ate and ate – wonderful things. After dinner, he ordered some icewine and Crème Brule and it was delicious. My uncultured-ass realized later that he dropped a cool $140 on our dinner that night – on a first date.
He was interesting and quite interested in me which, seeing as I was totally rebounding from the most unavailable man I’ve ever dated, I was quite interested in as well. We got drunk – super drunk – and took a walk after our date through the backstreets of the city until we found a proper place and stood in the street and made out. It was so romantic – like something out of a movie. I recall dropping my purse when he kissed me, I was so overcome with whatever it was and, when we regained our composure, untangled my hair from the fence that I was pressed against, he picked up my purse and carried it for me while we kept walking.
And we dated for a spell and it was fine and lovely and all of that, but ultimately I just wasn’t that into him.
So I look back at that night and think, “Ok… So was THAT the best date ever?” Granted, a really great date but nothing really ever came of the whole situation. Are great dates something we measure by what happens on the actual date or by what happens after the date?
Truth be told, he drove one of those fake SUVs and it was disgusting – his chain smoking and dashboard ashtray swirled smoke and ashes into the car as we rode with our windows down. I learned the only reason he wore vests was because he was self-conscious about his stomach and the vest, he felt, hid it well. I even grew tired of his kisses after a while – too much tongue.
I can’t tell you about the greatest date I’ve ever had because I have yet to have had it. I suspect that my greatest date with be something innocuous, rather boring, maybe even cliché. But it’ll be with the man that I spend the rest of my life with, so when I tell the story to our grandchildren or to people in line at the drug store, it’ll be good.