Please Pass The Fruit Loops

If you asked a handful of women, they would likely say that the single most attractive quality of a man is his confidence. Just as parents drill into the heads of their daughters, “Walk with purpose (and your keys pointed outward to gouge any assailants eyes out) when you are walking out to your car alone in the dark,” there is an attractiveness to a man who walks with confidence and well, just exudes it.

A few years ago, among all of my dating escapades, I had a date with a guy who apparently had his confidence bubble burst with an ice pick and pulverized with a meat cleaver. We met at a local restaurant. He told me what kind of car he drove, so as I was sitting in my car, I saw him walk toward the restaurant. Oh boy. As he walked, shoulders slumped head down, my immediate thought was, “This is going to suck.”

I reluctantly head into the restaurant where we sit at a high top near the bar. The waitress brings us a drink menu and as we are perusing the options he says, “I just don’t get these people who drink fruity tooty drinks.” The waitress comes over and asks, “What can I get for you?” to which I reply, “A very berry martini please.” He looks at me like I have two heads or perhaps he needs the jaws of life to extricate his probable size 9 from his mouth. Already I can tell, this guy is a tool shed.

The waitress leaves us with dinner menus and I immediately say, “Why don’t we just grab a drink?” God knows, there is NO WAY I am going to get through a dinner with this fruit loop (no pun intended). He immediately starts to talk about his ex-wife, the money he has to pay her and how she uses his kid as a pawn blah, blah. Oh My God. Please. These are the moments when you’re thinking, “If only Star Trek were legit REAL, and I could mutter under my breath, ‘Scotty beam me up’ in order to disappear from this cluster f&%* of an evening.” And just as I was thinking we could wrap this up and call it a day, he orders another drink. Someone, please shoot me.

I actually envision myself dropping my head on the table and tapping it repeatedly as if to rid myself of the memory of the moment. Then I look around and realize I would indeed look like I had two heads if I commenced with full-on head-banging in a restaurant, especially since the ambiance called for a pianist in the corner and not Whitesnake or Def Leppard coming from high-def speakers. Plus, I wasn’t wearing blue eye shadow and I hadn’t used Aqua Net to make my hair stand on end. I definitely was not dressed appropriately for an 80’s rock out.

As he orders his third – yes, THIRD – glass of red wine, I’m almost at the end of my rope. At this point I have heard a 60 some-odd minute monologue all about his marriage, dating history and days of “almost playing” professional baseball. I bet the Yankees would have loved to have this purple toothed moron on the team. As a ball boy. So I throw in there (a false), “I ‘almost’ was a rockstar,” and he glosses over that and continues talking about himself. Time to hatch an escape plan.

I look at the door, which is WAY OVER on the other side of the restaurant. Damn, I should have run track in school or something. I’m wondering how fast I can make it to the door. Maybe he won’t even notice I’ve left! Doesn’t this guy have to pee? He’s had three glasses of wine in about an hour! I’m thinking I can bail if he goes to the men’s room. Of course, I would leave money for my drink. I’m not THAT horrible.

I am being far too nice sitting through this sh&* show. I mean, where is my sense of self-preservation? I should just tell him I think my house is on fire and I have to go home and rescue my dog. The waitress comes over and I give her a pleading look. She gets it. I love her. “Shall I bring you the check?”

I almost exclaim with glee, “YES, PLEASE!” I feel such a sense of relief come over me it’s as if I had been holding my breath for hours. He pays the check and I’m thinking I should have been paid to endure this date rather than have my $10 martini tab picked up, but I am in the clear! Well, almost.

We walk out to the parking lot and he says, “That was fun. Can we do it again?”

WHAT? Is he serious? I can’t get back the last 90 minutes or so of my life and he wants to do it again? Someone needs to tell this guy that he should just invest in a good mirror, preferably one that makes you look thinner – they are the best kind – buy a bottle of red wine and sit down with himself for a date.

Instead, I bite my tongue and say, “It was nice to meet you but no thank you.” NEXT!