I hit an all-time new low in my heretofore otherwise abysmal dating career when I found myself on a date with an indisputably retarded man. Now, I’m not suggesting that all my dates need to be MENSA members; but when my date has me seriously questioning whether or not he rode the short bus to school, something is clearly amiss.
We'll refer to my mentally challenged suitor as "John" because that is his name and, unfortunately, this story is entirely true. I met John the Sunday before Memorial Day. Having that Monday off for the holiday weekend, a group of friends and I met around 6 o'clock for dinner (or, more accurately, a sandwich or appetizer washed down with about 14 alcoholic beverages). It was around midnight when John brazenly plunked down next to me at what would be the final stop in our whirlwind tour of Shadyside bars. In my elevated mood (or drunken stupor), I thought John and I had engaged in semi-intelligent conversation about running marathons, and I gave him my digits. Well, obviously, they don't refer to getting drunk as "getting retarded" for no reason. I gave my phone number to a, at the very least, mildly retarded man.
I noticed something was a little "off" when I talked to him on the phone. He rambled and mumbled; mumbled and rambled. But I, always being one to give the benefit of the doubt, interpreted his verbal diarrhea as simply a product of nerves. We arranged to meet for dinner that Friday at a little Italian place in his neighborhood (thankfully, I don't think the government will issue him a driver's license). I suggested we meet at 7, which John agreed was an appropriate dinner time since it was "not too early and not too late."
Since the conversation left me with a nagging feeling that my prospective date only had one oar in the water, I seriously considered standing him up. But I've learned from past experience that such moves trigger bad dating karma, and I certainly don't need any more odds against me. I was wrestling with the forest on top of my head that Friday evening when my phone rang. It was 6 o'clock on the dot - 6 o'clock cable time actually - when John called to confirm the date. Yes, the last time we spoke he said he'd call me around 6 on Friday. Anyone with any social skills knows that this sort of anal-retentive behavior is frowned upon. To make matters worse, instead of the simple and appropriate, "Are we still on for tonight?" John busted out with explosive diarrhea mouth. "Do you like coffee? I love coffee. I have an espresso machine. I have three little cups to put the espresso in. They are called demi-tasse. I make my own frappucinos. But I use less sugar than Starbucks. If you like sugar, you can put more in your frappucino." Despite the fact that this guy was about as entertaining as a cold sore, I still attributed his blabbering to being nervous about his impending rendezvous with a catch like myself.
When I drove past the restaurant in search of a parking spot at 7:03 (impressively timely considering I spent 20 minutes pre-date learning about John's bizarre coffee fetish), I noticed he was standing outside looking shifty and nervously checking and rechecking his watch. Oh, that's right . . . he's all about being on cable time. I also noticed he was wearing shorts. Guy shorts are fine under limited circumstances such as barbecues, fishing trips and the gym. But they are just not acceptable for a first date . . . unless, of course, the date was taking place in Bermuda (which, sadly, it was not).
It only took about two minutes of sitting at dinner with this man to reach the unequivocal conclusion that he had the cognitive functions of a housefly. Fist off, he blatantly stared at my chest while speaking to me. And secondly, he was still talking about the fucking coffee! "We both like coffee. We have a lot in common." Yes, we also both have skin . . . clearly us being together is all part of God's great plan.
When the coffee conversation finally died, well beyond its life expectancy, he turned his incessant ramblings to a new topic: pasta puttanesca. "I hope they have pasta puttanesca on the menu. My cousin once made me pasta puttanesca. He is an excellent chef. You'll never guess what his occupation is. He's a priest. And he made pasta puttanesca for me once. And it was very good. And blah. Blah blah. Blah blah blah blah."
The restaurant was rather quaint, which unfortunately meant the tables were closely situated within earshot of each other. I was painfully aware of the fact that the couple at the next table could hear our completely inane, albeit one-sided, conversations. I was also painfully aware, due to the unabashed gawking, that my low-cut top was enticing my childlike date. I awkwardly yanked up my shirt and, remembering that I had shaved my legs for this date, felt like a sick, twisted pervert.
When our food arrived, I tried to make polite conversation and asked John if the restaurant's pasta puttanesca was as good as his cousin's (which I had heard soooooooooooo much about). His response: "I don't remember. My cousin made me pasta puttanesca in 2004." Great . . . I was on a date with Rain Main only severely less intellectual. When our bill arrived, I graciously reached for my wallet. "Oh, I'll pay," he offered, "I'm old-fashioned like that." Old-fashioned? He invited me on this exercise in sadistic torture! If I actually had to squander my own money to make myself this miserable, I would have scraped my eye out with my fork.
He gave the waitress a credit card, which surprised me, frankly, since you don't see many 8-year-olds (or grown men with the wits of an 8-year-old) flashing plastic. But this fleeting moment of normalcy hit the wall when John started nervously babbling that he "needed change." "I need change." "I need change." I didn't even bother to ask him what the hell he could possibly need change for . . . I already knew. "Do you think I can put the tip on my credit card?" he asked. And with that, I came to the pathetically sad realization that I was this guy's only date . . . possibly ever. I'll admit I don't usually date the Brad Pitt's of the world, but when did I start scraping the bottom of the toilet?
I'd been stuck in this degrading side-show for over an hour and was in dire need of a stiff drink (or nine). I had put my purse over my shoulder before the waitress even returned with John's card, strategizing how I could make a quick and painless exit. "Do you want to go for a walk?" he asked, apparently (but not surprisingly) oblivious to explicit body-language cues. "I'm really tired," I lied, "I need to go home and go to sleep," (which could be true if I lived in a bar).
As he walked me to my car, I was gripped with paralyzing fear that he would try to kiss me, at which point I would be forced to fend him off by pelting him with my cell phone, Naomi Campbell style. "I had a really great time," he mused. "Me too," I lied . . . again (not only had I lost the will to live, but I was also now a compulsive liar), one foot/leg already taking refuge inside my Honda. "We should do this again sometime," he pressed, and I couldn't help but notice a long, black hair jutting out of his nostril. "Yeah," I lied yet again, fixated on the errant nose hair. If I were Pinocchio, I'd be looking like Sarah Jessica Parker at this point. "Give me a call as soon as you get home, so I know you didn't get in a car accident. Otherwise I'll think you wrapped your car around a telephone pole somewhere." Well that's a perfectly sane request. It's always chivalrous to end your date by verbalizing a ridiculous premonition of the poor woman's bloody demise. "OK," I said. But unless you consider the "home safe, thanks for dinner" text message I sent him from the bar a "call," I had lied for the fourth time in under four minutes. Just call me Babs.
I challenge you to top that . . .
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