So she’s sitting across the table from me – we’re at Hudson Grille at Brookhaven – she’s got a bandanna strapped around her head, blue jeans on and a tight shirt. She’s versatile – she could have walked out of the movie set from “Easy Rider” or she could fit in at a sports bar. Doesn’t matter.
Her face is smooth – a zit could never even think about taking up residence on that mug.
Me, my hair looks okay but my face looks like I spent last night blocking punts. I’ve got on nice shorts and a collared HIES staff shirt, tennis shoes and nerdy socks.
We’re talking and we find out that we both attended the same tennis camp as pups; she as a 12-year old and me 15. I wouldn’t have noticed back then; all I knew was that my backhand was okay but I couldn’t hit a forehand for shit.
We’re talking some more and we find out that we both hate onions.
“I didn’t think anybody else hated onions,” she says.
And, later in the conversation: “I played rugby at Mt. Holyoke and I was a hooker.”
Man, I’m thinking, this could be my lucky night!”
“No, no, no,” she says. “A hooker is a position!”
Oh, even better!
“I mean, a position in rugby!”
Damn!
She also tried out for crew, where they told her she had to be a coxswain. All I heard was cock, so my mind took off again.
“Gee Chuck, the date started out okay, then it went downhill in a hurry.”
But I’m on a roll. She’s laughing and leaning across the table. Now, according to the IHOS (International Handbook of Studs), if a girl leans across the table, this is excellent body language and might give you some hope of at least getting to first base. So I’m telling jokes and lies and more jokes and telling her about my job at HIES and about how loved and important and respected I am at my position as Head of School and she’s talking about her job teaching at Galloway and I’m thinking, “You’re hot, you’re hot, you’re hot.” I mean, her lips are moving but that’s all I’m hearing.
Finally, she asks, “Georgia or Georgia Tech? Which do you like?”
Oh shit, fifty-fifty chance. Don’t blow it, don’t blow it!
“Er…Georgia?”
“I HATE Georgia,” she says.
“Damn, and I was doing so good with you!”
She laughed. Another fifty-fifty down the tubes.
Anyway, we pay the bill and I take her home. This, as you might have read from a previous date report, is always the hard part. So to speak.
She invites me in and we’re sitting on the couch. We’re playing with her two dogs. She’s right next to me. I’m thinking I’m gonna plant one on her so hard I’m gonna feel like my face got caught in a tackle box. Go for it, go for it.
There’s a devil on one of my shoulder. I look to the other for comfort. Oops, another devil. To do it or not to do it? That is the question. I feel inept, sort of like Kevin on the Wonder Years. I can even hear the music, “What would you do if I sang out of tune…”
Holy shit, would you concentrate!
“I have to get up early so I guess this is good night,” she says. She stands up; I stare at her butt, then stand myself.
We walk out to the garage. It’s dark. She gives me a big hug. I can’t get Joe Cocker’s voice out of my head. “Get by with a little help from my friends.”
She hugs me, then drops her head, a big negative according to the IHOS. The hug, however was good, positive, embracing.
“We’re running Sunday, right?” she says.
Cool, a future date. Damn the IHOS and everything it stands for.
I go to the car, kissless, but with my face still intact. It could have gone better but still, tomorrow, as they say, is another day.
Editor’s note: It’s always a pleasure and a severe case of tragedy reporting my cases of inept-ness in the dating scene. Maybe I should’ve held on to my ex-wife. She didn’t like me very much, but she was rich and had one helluva microwave. “Hitch your wagon to a star…” Please respond with advice or ask me politely to quit sending you this shit. Just wanted to give you some brain-dead reading before school starts.
Still single but holding my own (so to speak),
Dunn
James Dunn
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment