Smokey Robinson

I have had more blind dates than the average bear.  Unlucky for me, but lucky for you, they provide some fantastic material!

Deep breath, roll of the eyes, one foot in front of the other, and another familiar pep-talk to convince myself this is a good idea.  And...here we go again. 

I walk down the stairs and out the door and don’t see him anywhere.  So I walk around the corner of my apartment and see a black Tahoe (potentially cute, right?  Does he have a yellow lab and a love of fishing too? I digress) running in the middle of the street with dark tinted windows.  I can only assume it is him as he’s given me no clue what he looks like or what kind of car he drives.  How dare I assume that he could actually push the driver’s side car door open to alert me that he is my date for the night.  I guess I should have clued into his dating etiquette when I received his text that said “I’m here” when I was upstairs awaiting his arrival.  Silly me, but what else is new. 

I timidly walk around to the other side of the car and open the door hoping this is, in fact, my date and not some serial rapist who just got his night made when a chick willingly walked up to his car, opened the door, and hopped in.  But, I wasn’t so lucky.  Instead, I opened the door to a huge heap of cigarette smoke bursting out of the car at me (side note: I hate smoking.  I hate everything about it. I hate that it causes nasty breath, yellow teeth and smelly clothes.  I hate that I am innocently freezed out when my addicted friends have to roll down the car window as to not suffocate me with it.  I hate that it interrupts a lovely dinner so a smoke break can be taken.  Oh, and it kills you.  Hate.  It.)  As the smoke clears away I can faintly make out his face.  He says “Hey Lolo”, so I at least know that this is the right car…the first and only success of the evening.

He asks the dreaded question “where do you want to go eat?”.  Seriously?  Okay.  Fine.  Now I know what we are dealing with.  I take the reins from the man and suggest the nearest restaurant with no wait, fast service and valet parking.  I direct him how to get there.  When we reach the street it is on, he realizes that “Oh my gosh!  This is just near the project I have been working on at work!”.   So I’m guessing you are in real estate of some kind?  or?  No idea.  Don’t really care enough to ask or have to listen to the answer.  Before I know it, we are on a 20 minute long wild goose chase looking for this effing project.  Since he knows zero about me, then he wouldn’t know that I am extremely and easily car sick.  20 minutes into my nausea, he realizes we “must be on the wrong end of the street or something?”   So, we finally head back to the restaurant.

We settle into our table and I realize that I have been with him about 30 minutes now and this is the first time he has actually looked at me.  I see his face.  He’s not totally ugly.  He then proceeds to talk about himself for the first hour of the date, no exaggeration.  I stared at his head so long that it kept getting smaller and smaller (kinda like in the movie Beetle Juice). 

After two hours of listening to him, the check FINALLY arrives.  Yay!! I get to go home and there is still time to catch the last 30 minutes of the Bachelor!  He drives me home.  He pulls up to my apartment and looks at me too long and too quietly.  Um, we’re not kissing.  I mean, come on?  Do you have ANY social awareness?  Oh wait, you don’t.  I reach for the door handle, lie and say “Thanks, it’s been fun” and he says “Can we do this again sometime?”  WHAT!  Hell no.  But I say ”Ya, sure.  That’d be great”...because what are my options, really.  I know what you're thinking, I could tell him the truth, but that would take too long.  Then I open my own car door and walk myself up to my own apartment.  I turn around to give the final wave goodbye, but he is long gone.  Don’t worry Smokey - I won’t let the door hit me in the ass on the way in.

Last point is what I like to call the inevitable afterbirth of a date.  Since I am oh-so-irresistible :), he of course, called me.  It also may have had something to do with the fact that I sat and let him talk about himself for 2 hours.  So, of course he wants to go out again.  I should’ve answered the call and told him he doesn’t need a date, he needs $150 for a psychiatrist.  Seriously, I could tell you the name of his pet growing up (Barney), his major (advertising) and his favorite color (green) and I bet he couldn’t tell you my last name (or first for that matter).   I don’t know or care enough really, so I avoided all calls, texts and voice mails for long enough until he finally faded back into the smoke. 

Farewell, Smokey Robinson.  I’m anti-cancer.