Okay, I realize I am probably the world's worst blogger. I am not consistent in keeping up with a potentially good thing, as apparently represented in my dating history.
Anyways.
This is one story I have been waiting to tell. Clearly.
Not because of the unfortunate situation that I happened to find myself within, but the whole scenario was a bit of a disaster from the get-go.
At my old retail job, I met a client who seemed mature, intelligent and promising, three things that hardly coincide and are usually mutually exclusive (at least, in my experiences, they are). That and I couldn't get over his fantastic hipster spectacles. After a few days of chatting about various subjects, he asked me to go out with him...
Let us interject with flaws, right off the bat. I probably shouldn't have agreed to go out with someone to whom I provided a service... then again, who needs rules when it comes to dating? (Me)
It started off with a phone call: "Hi! I would love to take you out for dinner tonight, meet me in front of the mall downtown, and I am going to surprise you in the restaurant we're going to! Don't worry, I think you will like where I am taking you!"
You would think that was a mature, romantic gesture, but let's be honest here: when it comes to me and my relationship with food, no one should ever assume what I like. It's a relationship that has outlasted and is unique to any other, in it's ability to carry my weight.. or as most would say, me carrying it's weight. Nevertheless, we have an unbreakable bond.
Also, if any of us has learned anything from Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock: "Never go with a hippie to a second location."
We met in front of the mall, and proceeded to make our way to the restaurant.. which was in a swanky hotel. On the roof-top over-looking the city, where he reserved a table by the window. And the price of the cheapest meal was equivalent to the Gross Domestic Product of Spain. And Italy. Combined.
It was a restaurant to take your spouse to on your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Instead, I was there on a first date.
I honestly just wanted a greasy burger. Maybe some fries. Definitely some fries.
We sat down, and I scanned the restaurant for the nearest fire exits/assessed how far the fall would be if I broke through and jumped out the window. While deciding what to order, we had started making more small talk, and I noticed even more... how... mature he seemed to be...
After ordering the world's most expensive carrot soup (maybe the broth was made of gold), I decided to be open and honest: "So, I just want to let you know, I am twenty-one. And I figure that you might be a little older, so I must know what the age difference is."
His response: ".... I don't want to say."
Me: "You have to tell me, right now."
Him: "Well, I just turned forty last week. But age is just a number, right? When it comes to love, there are no boundaries."
Wait. WHAT? My mind went to depths unforeseen. He was "mature" because he was essentially twice my age! His hipster glasses WERE BIFOCALS which he actually needed to see better BECAUSE HE WAS OLD. AND WHAT? WHEN IT COMES TO LOVE, THERE ARE NO BOUNDARIES? NO BOUNDARIES?! I AM FAIRLY CERTAIN THAT IS WHAT MARY-KAY LETOURNEAU SAID TO VILI FUALAAU.
I needed to nip this in the bud, and fast. I immediately made up a lie that I had just gotten out of a long, strenuous relationship with someone who was my best-friend for several years and I just couldn't give anyone proper emotional attention, let alone him, who deserved to be happy. His face immediately fell, and started sharing stories with me about the last ten women who broke his heart (of course there were at least ten women... because he was forty) and how he just wanted to find a nice girl with whom he could settle down and get married and start a family, blah, blah, blah. He was in near tears discussing it. For that reason, (perhaps because I was a weak human being for feeling bad) I decided to stay for the dinner, making it clear that I was there enjoying dinner with a newly-found friend.
Apparently, it gave him new, creepy hope. Throughout the dinner, he kept drinking copious amounts of coffee to stay awake, in hopes that we would "go for a midnight walk by the ocean."
.... SO YOU COULD PUT ME IN A BODY BAG? NO WAY, JOSÉ. I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
(His name is not José.)
I needed to officially kibosh it, so I took a couple more sips of the expensive, yet tasteless soup and lied to him about having a really early class to prepare for the next morning. It was then that he insisted on walking me home, because he wanted to ensure my safety... (The irony keeps smacking me in the face every time I think about it.)
I was with it enough to realize that I did NOT want this man to walk me to where I lived, let alone walk me anywhere. I let him walk me to the Legislative Buildings and we parted, not before him giving me a hug goodbye which resulted in him clinging on to me for moments too long, while my arms lay limp along my side, the rest of my body trying to wriggle free.
Immediately upon saying good-bye, I ran home, checking behind me every minute or so to make sure I wasn't being followed. A cold shower ensued when I arrived to my apartment.
In hindsight, I understand that he was someone who really wanted to be in love. And I appreciate it, and almost envy his ability to have such raw feeling in rapid waves (for I usually feel nothing). But it was manifested in the wrong person. The wrong person in EVERY POSSIBLE WAY. And maybe I am being somewhat lenient, considering I went on a date with some one who was a potential pedophile, but my hope is that he found his balance in life. Maybe that is the important lesson here. Balance is key to a truly happy life. At least in my perspective.
But then again, I wouldn't have a blog if my life were balanced.
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