Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Let's Pretend Dating is a Sport

For the purposes of this post... let's pretend dating is a sport -- that makes the post work-related.

Besides... you can't really disqualify dating as a sport based on its lacking of physical betterment. Us girls always do the extra crunch before a big date and I'm sure the guys throw in a few more push-ups in their workout... not to mention, kissing can burn 120-325 calories per minute (depending on how intensely you pucker up).

Why is dating a sport? Because I need to rant about the semi-date I just went on...

My connection with this guy (who I will refer to as Guy) began a while back while I was studying for a month in Hawaii. Pay attention: this becomes a key detail later. Coincidentally... he was in Hawaii as a full-time student there, but, like me, is from Minnesota. Seems like happy luck.

Now, the January I speak of is January 2010. We have talked on and off since then, while maintaining our own lives on, basically, two different continents (like that UST geography?). He has asked me out several times, but I everything has always seemed to fall through.

Guy recently returned to the mainland for the summer and our talking became 'on' again. He invited me out for coffee, which some of you may know is my kryptonite, so I accepted. How bad could it be right? Besides, as one of my friends explained... I'm bound to get a free White Mocha out of the deal regardless.

We agreed to meet at 2:30 and he was to pick me up at O'Shaughnessy-Frey (being the good student I am, I was studying in the library). 230 rolls around... followed timely by 240... and as 250 approached, my Blackberry vibrated in distress. Despite being the Type-A personality that I am, I tried to cut him a break; Guy is probably still on Aloha time.

I answer his call and, to my dismay, he sounds as if he is stoned. Mental note: text friends and tell them where I will be... I sure don't need my face on a milk-carton. Anyway, I walk to where he is parked in a vintage Mustang sitting in the passenger seat, legs slung out of the car, waiting for me... wearing board shorts. I'm serious. Board shorts. I ask myself, "is this strange or has St. Thomas really made me that stuck-up?"

Before I can answer, he get's up from my soon-to-be seat and closes the door. Now, I'm completely fine if a guy doesn't open a car door for you, but deliberately closing the door that I will soon be opening crosses the line. What am I, some extreme feminist that HAS to do everything herself out of self respect? NO - leave the door open, please.

I hop in and close the door. He says, "what's up?"... "I don't know, homie, what is up?" Jeez.

From this point on... I tried to grin and bear it.

I give him directions to the nearest Caribou and, because the music is so loud, I yell said directions at him. Thanks for making the atmosphere so conducive to conversation, Guy. As we drive down the street, I become fully aware that this vintage Mustang is a manual... Before you call me judgmental, I do realize this isn't his fault, but it gave me a headache nonetheless.

We arrive at Caribou. Once inside, being the coffee fein I am, I already know what I want. I politely wait for him to peruse the menu and decide on his decadent treat. After a few seconds, he turns to me and practically whispers in my ear, "I'll just have a small strawberry-banana smoothie." Ok? I try to not take issue that he didn't order a coffee... c'mon, this isn't jamba-juice.

I step forward to order my drink, and after placing said order, step back to let him order on the same ticket. When he DOES NOT MOVE AN INCH, I realize that this White Mocha is on me. Yes... that is right... he made me pay for my own drink. How generous. Looking back I'm wondering if he expected me to pay for his as well? Good joke, Guy.

I'll fast-forward.

In the middle of our conversation, Guy asks how long I had been studying that day. When I respond with 4 hours, he says he can never study for more than 2 hours at a time. 'Shocker,' I think, but instead I politely say, "understandable, when I was in Hawaii it was really hard to study... must be all that sunshine." And then he responds, wait for it... "oh, when were you in Hawaii?"

Remember that key detail I mentioned above. Yes, we MET in Hawaii. THAT must have skipped his mind.

Obviously I just said, "are you serious? No, really... are you serious? How do you think you know me??"

UNBELIEVABLE. Let's just say I had a sudden urge to be back in the comfort of O'Shaugnessy. I downed my drink and basically said, "let's skiddaddle."

He dropped me off on Summit and as he leaned in to, perhaps peck me on the cheek, I smiled, opened the door and bailed.

Worst semi-date ever. The only upside was the nice Caribou barista who gave me an extra shot of espresso for free. Perhaps I wear my emotions...

If dating is a sport... bench me. I'm not cut out for this crap.

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