"Let's face it: a date is a job-interview that lasts all night. The only difference between a date and a job interview is: not many job-interviews is there a chance you'll end up naked at the end of it.” Jerry Seinfeld
My last good date was innocuous at best and hardly memorable, though a success because neither of us puked in the dorm bathroom and I didn’t have to do the walk of shame the next morning. He ended up marrying this past summer, clad in a seersucker suit, and I was appreciative knowing that I would never have to marry a guy who wore summer materials mid-January and dipped his French fries in mayonnaise while rubbing my upper torso in the middle of a crowded dining hall. In a word: relieved.
I haven’t been all that anal about getting into dating once again, because I’m in no rush and I cannot handle the presence of another person on a semi-regular basis. Especially one that insists on touching me and holding hand. Even so, a little practice could never hurt and my first victim – Rachel - fell prey to me on New Year’s Eve and evening in which I realized that as a date I am one who not only is never ready on time, but also demands that the date pay for my Coldstone addiction and then has my mother pay for our meals at the ever fancy Friday’s and afterwards I proceed to become drunk on my mother’s couch and ate an entire bowl of guacamole. Thankfully though I got my victim to sleep in my bed and at the end was told that I’m just like a real live male.
The next morning I reviewed my over full protruding stomach and realized that I had no clean socks and figured that I should make some serious strides at becoming less male and hairy and getting women into my bed, and more girl-like, I suppose. So I planned for my next victim to be this week during inauguration festivities. I was determined to show her – yes, Her. I said PRACTICE, not “Oh you there with the six pack abs, come hither and buy me some wine” - a good time. I was prepared to schmooze and to hold my alcohol and to get us into concerts that were something like $1000 per ticket, because no, I did not pay $1000 to get in, but will gladly partake in these crab cakes.
And let me tell you, after two nights of extensive open bar-ing and blowing air kisses and pretending as if I was actually cool and could totally and modestly dance to Wyclef without spilling Cab. Saugv. all over my pink sweater. She didn’t even bat an eyelash when I attempted to chase a former Law and Order star around the bar. Earlier today I received an google chat message from the person I had catered to for the past few nights, surely that is a good sign; when one stops during a day to thank the person who brought him/her out. I am apparently a great date and even better that though I did get her drunk, I hailed her a cab on more than one occasion and never, ever even tried to get her into bed.
So apparently I am a good date. And maybe in a year or ten, I’ll test out my skills with actual boys. Maybe.