I’m having a hard time getting over the whole “Kotex” thing. I’m pretty creeped-out about it, to be perfectly honest, but I have to be here for 15 more minutes and maybe idle conversation will make the time go faster.
“Are you much of a reader?” I ask.
“Well, I like to read. But not books. I read periodicals.”
Periodicals? You mean magazines?
“And mostly,” he continues, “hunting magazines.”
As Mustache Guy proceeds to describe in excruciating detail the content of said hunting magazines – guns, ammo, gutting a poor, defenseless deer – Hot Guy is approaching our table. Hot Guy sits down at the table right behind us. Hot Guy takes a book out of his bag and starts reading.
Hot Guy is only sitting about 6 inches away from Mustache Guy which means that he’s close enough to hear Mustache Guy’s inane babbling. This is so embarrassing. Thank God he didn’t hear the whole “Kotex” debacle.
Hopefully, Hot Guy will get so engrossed in his Tom Perrotta book (Tom Perrotta? Hot Guy is reading Tom Perrotta. What am I doing wrong? Why have I not met a Hot Guy who reads Tom Perrotta? Do hot, Tom Perrotta reading guys not join matchmaking services? Of course, they don’t, Beatrice. Hot, Tom Perrotta reading guys don’t need a matchmaking service, because hot, Tom Perrotta reading guys are in high demand. Stupid hot, Tom Perrotta reading guys.) that he’ll completely tune Mustache Guy out. He’ll definitely tune Mustache Guy out. I’ve tuned Mustache Guy out and I’m not even reading.
Wow, Beatrice. You’re being a bitch. Get over yourself.
This poor guy. He’s probably just nervous. He’s perfectly nice, and I’m not being fair. I knew I should not have come on this date, because I’m wasting his time and mine.
I look at my watch, then I look at Mustache Guy, who has stopped talking long enough to take breath and before he can start talking again, I stand up.
“Well, thank you again for meeting me here. It was nice to meet you.”
Mustache Guy looks, justifiably, surprised that I’m now standing. He stands and walks with me out the door.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I say. He really is a nice guy.
“I’m a gentleman and I’m pretty affectionate, so I take care of my lady.”
Did he just say that he’s affectionate? He’s not planning on kissing me, is he? No. No, absolutely not. That’s ridiculous, we just met. And he said “Kotex.” But just in case, when we arrive at my car, I hold out my hand for him to shake.
“Thanks again,” I say.
“So, can we get together again some time?” he asks.
“Well,” I say. “I’m just going to be completely honest.” Partly honest. “That whole hunting thing is really an issue for me. I’ll have to think about it and let you know.”
“Ok,” he says.
“Drive safely,” I say as I climb into my car.
Wow. I cannot believe how bad that was. I’m honestly stunned at how completely clueless that guy was, and I kinda feel bad for him. Not bad enough to go out with him again, but…still he was a really nice guy.
Dude. It can’t just be me: “really nice guy” is a euphemism for “boring and not that smart.” I like nice guys. I do. I just don’t like boring, dense, nice guys. If the only adjective you can find for a guy is “really nice,” then please don’t set me up with him.
Don’t set anyone up with him. Unless, of course, your friend is “really nice” too. That might work.