I can’t believe this! Why me? Why now?
I didn’t want to come on this blind date anyway. But nooo, I’m so nice to my friend, Jess, I said yes.
And now, here I am.
To catch you up on my ranting, I’ll tell you what has happened to get me to this frantic point.
I told my best friend, Jessica Harlow, that I would go on a date with her friend’s cousin’s nephew–or something like that.
We were suppose to meet at this causal café, at table #2.(The table numbers are marked on the tables in tiny stainless-steel stands.)
Well, I got here first, and sat down, but being first started playing with my mind. What if he thinks I’m rude. . .an early freak. . .am I SURE it was table #2? (Maybe some one switched the numbers.)
My adrenaline yelled, “Run, Olivia, run!” but I went to the bathroom instead.
The plan was simple, hide in here till you see the guy sit down, then slip out and act like you just got here.
When I got in the bathroom, I stood a couple of seconds, then looked out–nada.
I got bored and in boredom, I noticed I had a tag scratching my side.
I lifted my top, there was the culprit–a tag. I really didn’t care if people saw this was a Hilfiger–the tag was on the INside--so I tried to rip it out. . .and tore my sweater.
The tag still hung tight.
“Hmm,” I thought, looking in the mirror, “I need some lipstick.”
So I pulled out a tube, and went to glide it on. . .the color just broke off. I tried to catch it before it landed in the sink, and I did. . .but it smushed in the pressure of my grip.
I got paper towel and wiped it off.
I checked out the door for my “dream” man.
I sat on the counter to wait, and a senior lady came in. I smiled, so did she. She did her thing, and came to use the sink. I smiled, she smiled weakly. She dried her hands, and I smiled. . . she dropped the towel and left like I’d laughed like a mad scientist and asked for her orthopedic shoes.
If SHE thought I was that scary, what will my date do?
Anyway–still waiting for mystery lover–I saw a string hanging from my jeans.
As if I didn’t learn from my sweater tag trouble, I started pulling said string. Something was unraveling, but I didn’t know what. . .I found what–my underwear.
Now I had raveled undies and a torn sweater. My date won’t see the undies, but the sweater. . .I hope he’s near-sided.
That’s wear I am now.
And I’m ranting.
I peak out the door.
Now he’s here!
I slip out to execute my half-baked plot, when the spiky heel of my suede boots catch in the grout of the Terra Cotta tile. My legs twist like pretzels under my size 11 frame and I fall on my butt!
Lucky my rump lands where the carpet starts, and not on the tile.
The whole place is staring at my grand performance.
The café owner along with the man at table # 2 come over.
“Are you ok?” the owner asks.
“Yeah, fine.” I say, feeling my face grow hot with shame.
No, I’m not gonna sue.
Table 2 man is looking at me. He’s cute–like Brad Pitt meets Orlando Bloom.
I smile a big Julia Roberts smile and blink, then blurt out, “I’m you’re date!”
“Hi.” he takes my hand to pull me off my bum and out of my shame.
When I’m up, he looks down at his hand.
Oh, no, I didn’t get all the lipstick off my fingers, and there’s frosty, pink smeared on his sun-tanned hand.
I try to wipe it off with a napkin.
We sit at table 2, introduce, and then chat. But I notice every time I start talking, Hugh–that’s his name. . .no, really–starts looking around the room and scratching his head.
I turn to see the fly he MUST be staring at.
No fly, he’s just not interested.
Hugh brags about his booming career, his many girl admirers, then asks if I can tell all his teeth are capped.
I say no, wishing I was anywhere but here.
“My dentist is just that good.” Hugh shows off the work.
He stands to leave, and so do I.
We walk over for him to pay the bill, but he looks in my face, “Olivia, you seem nice, and you are thin enough–not ideal–but enough. . .”
Ok, not a good way to start a sentence, buddy.
“But. . .” he eyes my red hair that loops just so on my shoulders, “I prefer blondes.” he hands me a piece of paper, “Nice meeting ya.”
The paper is my half of the check.
“Oh, and you might want this.” he hands me a card, clicks his tongue, winks, points his finger at me in mock gun form, and leaves.
As he goes, I look at the card–it’s his dentist’s business card!
Heaven forbid you have natural, uncapped teeth.
I pay, then head to my SUV–I need something to counteract this date.
Retail therapy and chocolate, anyone?
I get my cell and call Jessica and ask her to come with me.
I plan to dump about this bad date she sent me on while we try on Baby Phat heels.
The moral of this story?
NEVER go out with your friend’s friend’s cousin’s nephew unless God strikes you with a lightning bolt and tells you too!
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