The whole reason I have this column is because the editors of this fine publication thought the awkwardness of my dating life should be exploited for your entertainment. What I neglected to think of when I accepted this challenge is that a lot of women wouldn't want their experience with me retold on the pages of a widely distributed newspaper and website. In my eagerness to share my sordid tales, I forgot to factor in the feelings of others (a familiar complaint).
The conversation usually goes like this:
Yme: "Cool, so I can't wait for our date. There's just one thing I have to ask you."
Woman: "Oh, OK. What?"
Yme: "I write this column for DFW.com, and it's kind of about what a train wreck my love life is [forced laughter]. Would it be cool if I wrote about our date for my column? You can even write about me if you want."
That's usually when I either hear the proverbial dial tone, or, if the conversation is face-to-face, I see a look of incredulity, as she assumes I have only asked her out to humiliate her in print.
It's a tough sell, is what I'm trying to say.
Imagine my surprise when someone actually agreed to my bizarre request to chronicle our time together. This week, I went out on a date -- my first in a while. And much to my editors' chagrin, she was a nice, normal woman and we had a nice, normal time. Sorry.
We met through a mutual friend at happy hour at Blue Sushi Sake Grill, and I worked up the courage to ask for her number. (Read: had enough liquid courage to ask her.) She was a little taken aback when I told her about this column but thought it would be, at worst, a fun adventure. She did request that her name be left out of the column and declined to write about her impressions of me.
After changing clothes 14 times (I settled on business casual), I met up with her at the scene of the crime, Blue Sushi Sake Grill. Blue has a fantastic happy-hour menu, and it's reasonably priced. We shared some appetizers and sipped down a couple of saketinis. She was very easy to talk to, and, after a couple of drinks, laughed at my lame (hilarious) jokes.
I have an annoying habit of fidgeting when I'm nervous. I also gesture wildly when I talk, as though I'm having a seizure. I've knocked over my share of wineglasses. So I made a concerted effort to keep my hands on my legs. I'd rather look stilted and wooden than wear spilled wine and broken glass on my shirt.
For dinner, we went to Fireside Pies and split a pizza and a bottle of red wine. I am happy to report that I followed the advice I once shared in this column: I shut my mouth and listened. She is a nurse at a local hospital, has two dogs and an unhealthy obsession with Aerosmith and '80s metal. I like all of those things. I don't think I said anything too awkward, and I didn't try to be funny every time I opened my mouth, which is kind of a breakthrough.
We both had a great time and will see each other again next week.
So ... there you go. She didn't try to drug me and harvest my organs, nor did I unwittingly find out she has a penis. It was a great, laid-back evening.
I'm not sure why I feel so guilty about reporting that I had a nice time. Don't worry, I'll keep going out on dates. I'm sure there's an organ farmer or pre-op tranny out there, just waiting to steer this love boat straight into an iceberg. And I'll tell you all about it.
If you'd like to get a free meal out of me, e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org.