On Friday night I had my first date since the modern-day Greek tragedy that was my date with the retarded man. Although I am painfully aware that the following admission makes me the biggest, saddest loser in all of Pittsburgh (a city where, unfortunately, losers abound), I was genuinely excited about this one. I even bought a new pair of pants for the occasion (though the purchase had more to do with the six pounds I recently gained as the result of an unfortunate incident involving a broken digital scale, rather than the impending date itself).
My date, who will heretofore bear the false moniker "Chad" since I actually have respect for this man, was perfect on paper. He was a tall, athletic, dark-haired surgical resident at one of the area's local hospitals. I, on the other hand, look like shit on paper. Hell, my paper should be used to housebreak puppies or line birdcages. Nevertheless, he was willing to meet me for drinks and a comedy show, so clearly high-standards and discretion cannot be added to his curriculum vitae.
I downed a couple glasses of vino to "take the edge off" and headed to the bar to meet Chad. Now I'm sure we've all heard that a woman decides within the first 30 seconds of meeting a guy if she's going to sleep with him. Well I can figure that much out within 7 seconds, at the most. One look at Chad as he slogged through the door and I knew there was no sex in our future . . . at least not involving each other.
Apparently, perfect on paper doesn't always translate as such in real life. Chad was smart and sweet, but so is Bill Nye, and I'm certainly not going to bump uglies with The Science Guy anytime soon either. While chatting with Chad over Hoegaardens and quesadillas, I noticed he looked strangely familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place it. We had an appropriately awkward conversation about his deceased mother. I'm a firm believer that discussions regarding dead family members, like those concerning mental illness, should be reserved for the third date.
The comedy show, a stand-up performance by Richard Lewis of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" was equally disappointing. Or maybe it was funny but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself, since my seemingly perfect date had flopped miserably, to notice. After the show, Chad walked me to my car and ended the evening with an enervated hug. There is one very profound word that could be used to sum up my evening: blah.
When I got home, I went on a typical post-bad-date eating binge, because I use food to fill other voids in my life. Whatever, I'm not a nutritionist, or even healthy for that matter, so I can admit it freely with only minimal guilt. Then I remembered I'm supposed to be a my Vegas diet (because I'll never be able to enjoy my upcoming Vegas trip at my current weight as I am ridiculously shallow), and I got even more depressed.
I spent Saturday night at my friend D's house with her husband and baby watching the remake of "The Omen." The movie would have been more frightening to me if there was any possibility of me ever having a child; but at the rate I'm going, it's far more likely I'll start shitting iphones before I ever reproduce. As I tried to fall asleep in D's guest bedroom, hoping to avoid inevitable nightmares starring demon children and/or Liev Schreiber's razor-sharp mandibles, I suddenly realized who Chad reminded me of. It hit me like a lightning bolt leaving a scar across my forehead . . . Chad reminded me of Harry Potter! Sweet Jesus, no wonder I didn't want to have sex with him.
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