Hottie with a Head Injury
Sometimes people really do seem better in print. Hell, I say I'm one of these people. I'm just so much better at articulating what I think in print, and my mistake was assuming that everyone else is the same way. I was bitterly wrong.
I still don't know who message whom in this whole process. I can't imagine I would have messaged him; even his profile pictures were tragically lovely. He was a draftsman for a metalworking company, which to me indicated some sort of intelligence. He actually complimented me on my ability to articulate my thoughts in print. That was genuinely one of the best compliments I have ever received. so, I absolutely agreed to go out with him. Gorgeous, intelligent, kind, funny, he really seemed like the package deal. He called me one night after a couple glasses of red wine and we laughed and he even sounded gorgeous. He didn't drink. At all. Ever. I never did find out why because it didn't seem like a first date question.
So, we agreed to go bowling. That sounded fun, right? I despise dinner dates at first. They're like job interviews with food. And what happens if your dinner is messy? And I can never eat when I'm nervous and who isn't nervous on a first date? My sister says to call it "excitement" but damn it all, it's a first date, it's nerves.
I got to the bowling alley a bit early and found a barstool near to door where I could see and I realized it was league night. All of the retired military men in my area were in the same room, with large balls and bad shoes. I was approached by one man who was my grandmother's age and had been retired from a military contract company for sixteen years and that's after most likely retiring from the military proper. He introduced himself and asked if we knew each other from somewhere. I gently told him no, but I talked to him for a few minutes because I was taught to respect my (much) elders and military personnel.
After this gentleman wandered off, another man walks up to me (old enough to be my father) and wraps his arm around my shoulders and tells me that I'm a beautiful woman. Wow, thanks, now take your hands off me before I take your hands off you. Big smile. Then Chad arrives.
Chad is a beautiful creature. The photos on his profile do him no justice. He's a surfer with this head full of wavy, shoulder length, chestnut hair run through with blonde streaks, that just curls around the backs of his perfectly shaped ears. His eyebrows are full and dark and sexy over intense eyes the color of Caribbean waters. His skin was so flawless that he looked like he'd been cast in bronze. I could have written love poetry to his Roman nose. He had that loping gait of athletes that have to practice agility in their activities, like walking is somehow easier for them than for the rest of the world. He was exquisite. The intensity in his eyes reminded me of when the Beast finally turns human in that Disney movie. His only visible physical imperfection was the tiniest hint of almost crooked teeth. It was like the one cloud in the sky that makes the perfect blue better than if it were not there. The one little thing that made him more perfect by relief.
We decided that since it was league night, we'd just dip out of there and have sushi. I love sushi. but it's messy. He was so fucking good-looking that I was intimidated. Then he spoke. I say spoke, but it was more like articulated grunting. I spent the whole date speaking and he spent the whole date not really getting anything I said. It was the paragon of awkward. By the end of the date, I had to wonder if he really had suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury. He literally could not put a sentence together. I was intimidated by his beauty and he had to be intimidated by my brain. It was the weirdest thing I have ever experienced. How can someone who seemed so good be so tragically, hopelessly, irreparably bad?
Of course that line of thought sends me off in the direction of wondering if I ever did this to someone else. I wonder if I look too good in my pictures (though I've been told time and again I look better in person) or if I present myself as more funny or more athletic or more interesting than I am. I have to wonder if my natural social anxiety comes across as total insanity or if my passion and exuberance makes me seem neurotic. I can certainly say that so few of my dates have ever produced a second date, so I'm not sure if it's me or them. And some of these guys should have really wanted a second date. I'm just sayin'.
The sad part is that I would have given sweet Chad a second date just on the grounds that maybe he was just super nervous and had trouble around a new person like I do sometimes. I messaged him the next day, but he totally went dark. Maybe I'm really not as pretty in person.
Next time, read about the rugby player with a couple of creepy secrets.
I still don't know who message whom in this whole process. I can't imagine I would have messaged him; even his profile pictures were tragically lovely. He was a draftsman for a metalworking company, which to me indicated some sort of intelligence. He actually complimented me on my ability to articulate my thoughts in print. That was genuinely one of the best compliments I have ever received. so, I absolutely agreed to go out with him. Gorgeous, intelligent, kind, funny, he really seemed like the package deal. He called me one night after a couple glasses of red wine and we laughed and he even sounded gorgeous. He didn't drink. At all. Ever. I never did find out why because it didn't seem like a first date question.
So, we agreed to go bowling. That sounded fun, right? I despise dinner dates at first. They're like job interviews with food. And what happens if your dinner is messy? And I can never eat when I'm nervous and who isn't nervous on a first date? My sister says to call it "excitement" but damn it all, it's a first date, it's nerves.
I got to the bowling alley a bit early and found a barstool near to door where I could see and I realized it was league night. All of the retired military men in my area were in the same room, with large balls and bad shoes. I was approached by one man who was my grandmother's age and had been retired from a military contract company for sixteen years and that's after most likely retiring from the military proper. He introduced himself and asked if we knew each other from somewhere. I gently told him no, but I talked to him for a few minutes because I was taught to respect my (much) elders and military personnel.
After this gentleman wandered off, another man walks up to me (old enough to be my father) and wraps his arm around my shoulders and tells me that I'm a beautiful woman. Wow, thanks, now take your hands off me before I take your hands off you. Big smile. Then Chad arrives.
Chad is a beautiful creature. The photos on his profile do him no justice. He's a surfer with this head full of wavy, shoulder length, chestnut hair run through with blonde streaks, that just curls around the backs of his perfectly shaped ears. His eyebrows are full and dark and sexy over intense eyes the color of Caribbean waters. His skin was so flawless that he looked like he'd been cast in bronze. I could have written love poetry to his Roman nose. He had that loping gait of athletes that have to practice agility in their activities, like walking is somehow easier for them than for the rest of the world. He was exquisite. The intensity in his eyes reminded me of when the Beast finally turns human in that Disney movie. His only visible physical imperfection was the tiniest hint of almost crooked teeth. It was like the one cloud in the sky that makes the perfect blue better than if it were not there. The one little thing that made him more perfect by relief.
We decided that since it was league night, we'd just dip out of there and have sushi. I love sushi. but it's messy. He was so fucking good-looking that I was intimidated. Then he spoke. I say spoke, but it was more like articulated grunting. I spent the whole date speaking and he spent the whole date not really getting anything I said. It was the paragon of awkward. By the end of the date, I had to wonder if he really had suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury. He literally could not put a sentence together. I was intimidated by his beauty and he had to be intimidated by my brain. It was the weirdest thing I have ever experienced. How can someone who seemed so good be so tragically, hopelessly, irreparably bad?
Of course that line of thought sends me off in the direction of wondering if I ever did this to someone else. I wonder if I look too good in my pictures (though I've been told time and again I look better in person) or if I present myself as more funny or more athletic or more interesting than I am. I have to wonder if my natural social anxiety comes across as total insanity or if my passion and exuberance makes me seem neurotic. I can certainly say that so few of my dates have ever produced a second date, so I'm not sure if it's me or them. And some of these guys should have really wanted a second date. I'm just sayin'.
The sad part is that I would have given sweet Chad a second date just on the grounds that maybe he was just super nervous and had trouble around a new person like I do sometimes. I messaged him the next day, but he totally went dark. Maybe I'm really not as pretty in person.
Next time, read about the rugby player with a couple of creepy secrets.
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