I want to find us a seat in the Starbucks that’s a bit off the beaten path, because I don’t want anyone to hear our conversation and recognize immediately that this is a first date and then feel sorry for us because we’re on a first date. I always feel sorry for old-first-date-people, because first dates are the absolute worst and you feel like a moron just because you have to have one in the first place. Shouldn’t those first dates have happened about 20 years ago? And shouldn’t you now be in a committed, loving relationship so that you never have to have another first date for as long as you both shall live?
I finally find a place far away from all of the other coffee-ers in the corner of the room. And, yay me, I succeed in choosing us the hottest spot in the entire building. I mean, it’s air-conditioned and feels cool, but when we actually sit and get settled, I realize that the sun is burning through the screen and it is sweltering.
We absolutely cannot sit here. He’s started to “gross sweat” because I’m such a fox – hey a girl can pretend – and he’s drinking hot coffee.
“I think it’s going to be too hot here,” I say. “Should we move over there?”
“Nope, I’m good,” he says, taking a sip of his hot coffee.
I’m thinkin’ he doesn’t want anyone to know we’re on a first date either. And this is when our date takes a turn. A mortifying turn.
Don’t worry, I didn’t fart. It wasn’t that mortifying. But what I did was bad enough. And I couldn’t help myself.
“Where are you from?” I ask. Oh no. It’s happening. Stop it from happening.
“Where do you work? What do you do there?” I’m doing it! I’m asking all those lame first date questions!! I can’t stop.
“Are you much of a reader? What kind of music do you like?” What is happening? Stop, Beatrice! Stop!
“Do you golf? Because I need someone to golf with.”
What the fuck am I doing??? Holy shit, I can’t stop. I’m nervous and I like him and I want to impress him and I want him to think that we have a lot in common and that we could make a fabulous power-couple, and I end up interviewing him for an hour! An entire hour!
I gave the guy a fucking job interview. He sat there dutifully and answered all of my questions. Ugh.
I am so sorry, Starbucks Guy. Can we have a do-over? Let’s do it again, and this time you won’t arrive sweaty, you won’t order a hot coffee, I won’t seat us in the furnace, and I absolutely will not interview you and ask embarrassing first date questions.
I’ve been asking him questions non-stop for an hour; now I have to go, because I have a flight to catch. Oh my gosh, this sucks. I have got to redeem myself.
Spoiler alert: I do not redeem myself.
Note to self: desperation is not attractive. Desperation leads to bad decisions. Desperation guarantees failure. The basement loves desperation. (See The Beginning.)