Ah, dear invisible friend, here we are again. I know, it's been too long, or even not long enough, but oh, how I've missed you. No, really. I have. Don't roll your eyes, they'll freeze that way.
It occurred to me, dearest, that I haven't blogged about a particularly memorable date I had in the beginning of this year. It was this date, in fact, that helped prompt my need for a blog, despite my friend Connie's response of "Because you...don't....talk....enough?" Don't fret, I wasn't hurt by this. Much. No, no. At all. Because really, we've met, right? You know Connie wasn't wrong.
I had been on eSchmarmony for a little while when W contacted me. He seemed pleasant enough. We had a few conversations via email and IM, a few nice phone calls. While talking to him didn't make my heart pound or cause my computer browser to pop up gift registries, as if by magic, I tried to keep an open mind and a hopeful heart.
Perhaps I should have canceled the date when, after hearing that I was driving to Vancouver, BC, for my great-aunt's memorial service the day before our meeting, his immediate response was to ask me to smuggle some Cuban rum back across the border for him. That might have been a wise thing to do. Live and learn.
But I didn't cancel my date. I met W at a cute little neighborhood restaurant/bar, conveniently close to his home. Not that I mind driving. That's fine. He was waiting for me in the bar, having a drink. We chatted a bit and when the server came over to take my order, he spent a little time trying to gauge the bartender's comfort level with preparing "pre-prohibition era cocktails."
May I just say, here and now, that I think it's super that people have interests and passions that make them seek out the unusual, be it in food or drink or art or music. That's great. But I wouldn't go to Native American museum and complain about the lack of European Impressionist masterpieces. I'm just saying.
As the date/conversation progressed, my work in the medical field was discussed, and W lamented his inability to shock me with anything, given my job. I assured him that despite my exposure to all things icky, plenty shocked me. [No, I didn't bring up the rum request. Yes, it would have been brilliant. No, I was still trying to be nice.] W then asked what shocked me. I told him people shocked me. A delicate tendril of mockery tickled my ear as W called my answer an evasion.
Yes. I know. But he asked.
Perhaps telling him an anecdote about a child's death at my first hospital was inappropriate. But it really was one of the most shocking things I've ever encountered. And when I think of the circumstances, nearly twenty years later, I am still shocked. And he asked.
The next day at work, my lovely coworker Stephanie asked me about the date with W and the first thing out of my mouth was:
"I made him cry."
W, hereafter and forever more known as The Weeper, became the benchmark for bad dates. And I remind myself of this as I go to have a coffee date with...
Pray for me.