They tell me that practice makes perfect and that's a damn lie. I've had a lot of practice when it comes to dating and I know nothing is ever perfect. It never goes the way you want it and the majority of the time, it's every worst-case scenario you could think of. Since losing all of the weight, I've been trying to curb bad habits and not repeat the same mistakes I've made in the past -- which is easier than it sounds. I spoke to my shrink about the train wreck that is my dating life and she asked why I didn't speak up and tell the guys it's wasn't working out, thank them for the evening and call it a night.
Well, A. If I did that, I'd have nothing to write about and B. It's never that easy, especially when alcohol is involved.
I went on a date recently with a guy I think will be a friend of Bill W's in the very near future. Listen, I'm by no means judging him. Lord knows I've hit the bottle and hit it hard when I was uncomfortable, sad or when a battle over who shot first broke out (Han!). So I know we all have our reasons to drink. But, I'd like to think you'd make attempts to stay sober when you'd trying to make a first impression. I could be wrong -- or maybe I'm just not the skilled alcoholic that he is.
He was already drinking when I got to the restaurant and offered to buy me something when I sat down. I can't drink. Well, I could. But my surgically-modified tummy can't take all of the sugar and I'd get crazy drunk and turn into a human vacuum cleaner. But since most restaurants frown upon women spending most of the meal with their heads buried in their date's lap, I figured not drinking would be the best thing to do. (See? I occasionally can make a smart decision.)
I passed on the drink and sipped on my water with lemon while he finished his scotch and ordered another one and a bottle of wine to go with his meal. I won't lie: I was jealous. I miss drinking. I miss how made me feel and how happy I was after a few. I probably had a bit of a drinking problem back when I was a cow-like creature, so it's better that I'm taking a long break from booze, but I still miss it.
While I nibbled on my salad (I've become one of those girls! *bangs head*), my date over-indulged on his steak dinner and booze. The piece of meat was the size of Sloth from The Goonies' head. I kind of wish Sloth swooped in, screaming 'HEY YOU GUYS!', snatching my date and leaving the mashed potatoes and corn for me to snack on. I know, I lead a wild and crazy life.
But since Sloth was too busy with Chunk and his collection of Rocky Road, I hung around with the drunk and got stuck answering a bunch of extremely personal questions.
"Are you a virgin?"
"Were you one of those fat girls who sucked a lot of dick?"
- Define 'a lot'?
"Are you good at it?"
- You'd have to ask them. I'm sorry; I didn't pass out comment cards.
"Since you lost all of the weight, did your vagina sag?"
- According to my waxer, no.
"Can I see for myself?"
- Well, I have leggings on under my dress, so unless you have x-ray vision, I'm going to say 'no.'
"I'll show you my dick if you do."
- As tempting as that sounds, I'm going to pass. I'm sorry.
"Your friend said you're up for anything and you were fun."
- Oh but I am, sir. I just don't feel like humiliating myself in public and my vagina is agoraphobic and prefers to stay indoors.
"Do you take pills for your vagina problem? It's not an STD, right? Why is your vagina sad? Did you get molested?"
This is when I started to contemplate slamming my head or his head into the corner of the table and just ending it all. But I would have felt bad for the unlucky bastard who would be forced to clean up all of the blood and grey matter floating around. Plus, I actually liked the restaurant we went to and nothing leaves a lasting impression like bloody, physical violence.
I lost count after his sixth drink and the bottle of wine was almost empty. I would have figured the restaurant would have cut him off earlier in the evening, but if you tip enough in between rounds, anything is possible. Like an alcohol-induced coma!
While this is all going on, the comment my shrink made about standing up for myself and telling him it just wasn't working out and to thank him for the dinner was going through my head. I tried. Repeatedly. For an hour. He didn't get the hint.
When this type of situation happens, you could both be blunt or a tad rude (depending on what camp you come from) and just say exactly what you mean or you could do what I did and disappear. Now, since I was not lucky enough to attend Hogwarts (which really sounds like the after effect of screwing around without a condom), I do not have the magical knowledge to make myself disappear with a snap of my fingers. But I did know where the bathroom was and the coat check was next to the bathroom...
"Would you excuse me? I need to run to the ladies room."
Walked past the loo, grabbed my coat and got the hell out of there.I know it wasn't the most mature thing to do, but neither is asking to see my alleged saggy vagina.
About 30 mins later, I'm sitting in bed watching Stephen Merchant and guess who calls?
"They just threw me out. I'm sorry to leave you while you were in the bathroom. I'm going to [insert bar name here]." *click... dial tone*
I called the restaurant the next day to see what happened. Evidently, Prince Charming decided to turn the men's room into a gigantic vomit-filled version of spin art and passed out. Management didn't approve of his design aesthetic and showed him the door.
I'm not talking to the friend who set me up on this date. Although, she said I should be thanking her and in the end, she's right. If it wasn't for her, I'd have nothing to write about.
I need new friends.
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