Guy number two from my initial disastrous Craigslist post was even worse than my first (“I do not think you are as tall as you think you are“). Besides the previously mentioned issues with honesty, he had the unfortunate experience of being a complete jerk.
He sends me his email – “Hey, I’m 5’11”, well employed, super awesome and funny guy. You sound really cool and I know I’m the guy for you, so you should definitely get back to me.”
So he already knows that we’re going to make it? Awesome. I love not having to put any thought or effort into silly little things like dating. Alright, I’m ready to meet my ready-made man. I don’t want to intimidate his under 6′ tallness, so, again, I wear my 3″ heels, rather than going for a more fierce, and dare I say, more awesome, 4″ or 5″ heel, so I am a measly 5’8″. Except, here’s the thing. When I slide off of the bar stool as he arrives, I am looking down at him. Like, full head tilt, chin into chest, looking down on his no-way-in-hell 5’11” self. We do the hand shake, and I guess my disappointment and weariness show in my face, because I get nothing – no smile, no “how are you?” – nothing. We go to order drinks, and here’s where he shows his ass. I order my sangria (I can pretend that it’s healthy because it has fruit) and he’s looking at the menu. I ask if he knows what he wants. He stomps his (tiny) feet up to the counter, snarks, “I guess I do,” and orders a Fat Tire. The barista gives us our total, and I reach into my purse, fully capable of paying for myself. He says, “Uh no, obviously I’ve got it,” said with what might be described as a grimace, or maybe a scowl. Okay, thanks. We get our drinks and go sit outside.
Now, yes, I wanted to leave right then and there, but he had just paid for my sangria, so I felt that I could at least finish that before I walked off. We sit down and talking with him was like pulling teeth. “So, where do you work?” “At my job.” “Okay. Do you like your job?” “Yeah.” So I think, maybe I should try talking about me. I start in on something trivial, and he literally starts dancing in his chair. Nice. “You obviously like music. What kind of music do you listen to?” “Oh, really anything. Rock, jazz… And a little hip-hop in the bedroom.” That last was said with a lifted eyebrow, a knowing smirk, and I completely lose my cool.
“Do me a favor, will you? Don’t ever look at me and say the word “bedroom” again, okay? Because you will never see me in a bedroom, or any kind, ever. In fact, if I saw you in Bed, Bath and Beyond, I would leave, just so I would not have to look at you with beds anywhere around us.” I finished my drink, stood up, and promptly walked away.
And here is the moral of this story – don’t assume that your date likes listening to music in the bedroom. Maybe they just want peace and quiet!