Letters From The Bay, Week 4: The San Francisco Date Debate Part I

The date began like any other.  That is to say, people were nervous.  I wasn’t nervous, because to me, dates are just free dinners and hey!  You might even get to make out later!  But I’m just easy like that.

We’d met the night before, at a bar hosting a charity event called Booze for Boobs.  He caught me staring at him, which I was (his ass, not his boobs) and he totally called me out on it.

“Caught you!” (him, triumphantly)

“I’m sorry?” (me, blushingly, fakely, obviously)

“Uh, you were staring at me?  And I totally caught you? (him, slightly cockily, yet also, explanatorily)

“Yeah, okay, maybe I was.” (me, flirtily, dismissively)

“Well, I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” (him, adorably)

And so we continued, excitedly, gigglingly, oddly into the night.

He was a skier! A venture capitalist! A Democrat! An acquaintance of a mere three hours! Possibly a felon!  Who the hell knows! The man of my dreams!

When he said he didn’t believe in playing by the rules and could we skip the three-day waiting period and go out right away, I was ecstatic.  At last!  A man who didn’t play games!

When he said he’d already planned out our first five dates, I was thrilled.  Finally!  A man who knew what he wanted!

When he called 20 minutes after we left the bar, only to say that he couldn’t stop thinking about me and how happy he’d be when we were together again, I was flattered.  Eureka!  A man who is not afraid of his emotions!

When I woke up the next morning and scrolled through the litany of text messages reading “baby” and “sweetheart” and my personal favorite “darlin” (no apostrophe – Sarah Palin must have taught him how to text) and recalled that I’d already agreed to a minimum of five dates with this man, I was freaked.

Oh God!  Is he crazy?  Like, certifiably nuts, perhaps?  Because nobody calls me sweetheart unless they’ve gone off their meds, and there is nothing particularly darling about me, except for the fact that I was once a small child, and when children are involved, that word seems to get thrown around a lot.  Especially at Easter.  And when they’re missing all their teeth at once.

But I am not a small child.  And I was not wearing a frilly dress and hunting for eggs when we met.  Also, I do have all my teeth. At least, last time I checked.   You’re only supposed to have seven of them, right?  RIGHT?

So, clearly, this man was insane.

To be continued…

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Filed under Gentlemen Friends, Letters from the Bay

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