So again I haven’t updated and the reason for that is I’ve been busy dating!
All fired up from last weekend, I bravely responded to about half the guys left in my inbox. A veritable flurry of email communication followed and dates were set up.
The first was an after-work drink date with a guy whose profile described him as ‘adventurous and a real man.’ The bellringer for those warning bells must’ve been taking a sickie I guess.
I arrived to find a rather pissed-off looking guy, somewhat rotund and tapping his fingers on the table. Let’s call him Ernest. I really want to give him a lame-sounding name (deepest apologies to any non-lame Ernests out there).
“Typical woman being late,” he greeted me in that faux ‘I’m joking but not really’ way people do.
It was two minutes past our agreed meeting time, but nevertheless I apologised with a nice smile on my face. I ordered a glass of wine and as soon as the waiter left, Ernie said, “I’m not going to pay for your drink you know.”
Hmmm. I’m thinking I might skull that wine when it gets here. “I totally expected we’d split the bill,” I told him.
“Sure you did,” he responded. “That’s the problem with women in this city. All they have to do is sit back and wait for the guys to come to them and buy them drinks just by showing a bit of tit.” I tried to surreptitiously hoik my top up a bit but wound up just exposing my belly in what I can only imagine looked like some sort of perverted come-on. “You’re all such princesses, clicking your fingers and thinking the guys will come running.”
Being lumped in with the ‘princesses’ surprised me a little, but I suppose I have been told I bear a passing resemblance to Princess Fiona in Shrek, so maybe that’s what he meant.
“That’s not exactly true,” I told him. “It’s really hard for women my age to meet men. That’s why I’m internet dating.”
“Bull. You could just walk into any bar right now and say you want sex and some guy will be willing to do it with you.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I want. It would be degrading.”
“What, so you’re too good for those guys? See. All women are stuck up bitches.”
When that glass of wine came, I threw it down in record time, making me do that little throw-up-in-your-throat thing. Maybe I should have let it be the throw-up-all-over-the-bitterman thing, but I do try to be a lady.
I threw a ten-buck note at him and told him I had to leave. “Yeah, yeah, you think you’re too good for me, probably got five more suckers to go to tonight.”
I raced out of there before he figured out I’d ordered a $15 glass of wine. Ah, small victories.