The Breakdown
Date #1: The Bearded Hippie (BH)
So the long and short of our conversation online is that it was pretty damn awesome. We have a lot in common: love for animals, attachment to family, passion of cooking, we both think I'm awesome. Blah Blah Blah. Listen, this guy is self-admittedly thinking that I am the coolest chick he's met on this stupid site that he doesn't even ask for a picture. And, no, I don't think he's crafty enough to use that as some sort of line. I offer him one cause let's face it, I'm a shallow bitch and I'm not going to judge if he is too. If he doesn't find me attractive, 1) he's fucking wrong or blind or 2) I just save myself the time and money involved in making myself all cute and shit and then going out with him.
All the same, he's sees a picture, fawns over me and we plan to meet for drinks a few days later. I go about my daily majestic life and eventually meet BH for a drink at a local brewery. He's visibly nervous which is fine. I'm in sales so not only am I good with strangers, I can talk to a fucking wall if need be. We order some drinks and he starts asking questions about me. Endearing, right? He's curious. We chat for a bit. He pauses and makes a comment about how pretty my eyes are. We chat for a bit more. He makes a comment about how pretty I am. He seems almost shocked. We have great conversation and he starts stories with shit like: 'When I was back training dolphins..." and ends them with: "I didn't think that it would make me cry, but seriously? Have you ever seen a baby elephant up close?" Ok, yea, most women would have run out screaming by now, but I'm a sucker for animal lovers. Whatever. He suggests we go to dinner so obviously we are getting along great and he thinks so as well. We have dinner, more talk and lots of laughs. He walks me to my car after a 7 hour first date.
See what fail to mention above is absolutely anything physical outside of the fact that he sports a beard. BH is the same height as me (the actual version - flatfooted) and about 150lbs. So basically, he's really not a big guy. Some might even say tiny. But I keep trying not rule out gentleman callers based on height. When I went on a date with a short dude awhile back, one of my friends asked if I was going to wear flats (mind you, outside of tennis shoes, I own exactly one fair of flats). My response, "Fuck no. Are you serious? Why would I pretend to be something I'm not? Which is 5'11" in heels." I can't seem to get passed this with BH and he's nonchalantly asked me out again, but I haven't accepted. Shallow? Yea, probably but if I'm not attracted to him, why waste time...right?
Date #2: The Irish Hurler (IH)
The Irish Hurler is fucking awesome. On paper. He's sarcastic, witty and charming in writing. We exchange a dozen emails online and then he offers his phone number. By all accounts, he's bad, beefy and well put together. He graduated with a double major in International Business and Finance and a minor in Japanese. (yea, I know, I questioned how he ended up on POF as well. Especially without a shirtless self portrait taken in his mother's wallpapered bathroom). So we arrange to meet for drinks.
We walk up to the restaurant, he gives me the once over and we walk in together and he barely says three words. He makes a meticulous decision about where we should sit and then proceeds to examine the menu with such intensity that I'm fairly certain he forgot that I was even there. So, I start asking him questions (as one tends to do on a first date). He seems almost off put that I am speaking to him while he is looking at the menu. What the fuck?
The short version is that I ask him a shit ton of questions, make remarks and witty commentary for two hours. I listen to him drone on about Irish Hurling like it's the most interesting thing I've heard in my life, he talks about bad POF dates he's been on, he talks about his shitty divorce and how awesome he is a jiu jitsu. Two beers and dinner later, the check comes. I throw down my credit card (which I've already pulled out of my purse because I am ready to bee line it for the door) and he throws his down too, "So you just want to split it then?"
After a couple of hours with me, this narcissistic monotone dicklick couldn't tell you one thing about me. Not one, I guarantee it. Don't get me wrong here, again, I am in sales. I listen to people talk about themselves all day every day. The difference is that someone pays me to do that, I'd rather not do it in my free time as well.
Honestly, looking back on the IH date, I'm thinking he knew right when he saw me that he wasn't interested. He looked me up and down and stopped right on my tattoo. I think this was a deal breaker for him. Which is fine, just fucking tell me that before I spend $30 on fucking drinks and dinner over horrible company. Is that too much to ask?
Needless to say, I hid my POF profile after these dates. I'm still debating on going out with the hippie again. He was so much fun to hang out with and talk to surely I can get passed the tiny thing, right?
Rita read this and said I sound 'downtrodden.' After looking up what downtrodden meant (subjugated; oppressed. And then looking up what subjugated meant: to bring under control; conquer), I've decided that wasn't the right word to describe my feelings about these dates or this post. Frankly, I'm just completely exhausted by the men I've been 'dating.' At this point, I feel like I've gone out with emotional clones and I should just expect to be disappointed by these men. If they don't disappoint, I will then be pleasantly surprised.
In the meantime, I will continue to gather market research subjects elsewhere (read: NOT online dating sites). And not to worry, all is not lost. I didn't just sit around waiting for some awesome chain of events to satisfy myself after rewatching Wild Orchid (mmmm, young Mickey Rourke). Pshaw! Stay tuned for my next post: Shitting Where You Eat: The Restaurant Edition. Come to think of it...maybe that one needs a better title.
Additionally, Netflix Wild Orchid and then probably go ahead and put 9 1/2 Weeks in you queue too. You're welcome.
-Stoney.
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