The problem with Match.com is if you click on someone’s
profile it sends them an email to say you have looked at them. So when the Saturday coffee date with SMB/Adam
arrives I can’t remember what he looks like or anything about his profile and
don’t want to click on him as he’ll know.
So I’m sitting in Starbucks hugging a grande skinny hazelnut latte in
trepidation. Ten minutes passes and I
can see an emo type, hunched over in the corner who keeps staring at me. Is that him?
Oh no.
Just as I am about to go over, Adam arrives. Oh thank god.
So far, so normal. The banter is actually
good. Up to this point, a second date has
not been in the pipeline, so that’s my aim for today. Strangely, for a first date, he tells me that
he is absolutely broke. Okay. We don’t drag it out. We swap internet date stories; this is quickly
becoming my favourite topic. We finish
our coffees and, right there, I ask him on a second date. He agrees and we put something in the diary
for next Tuesday. I leave. And breathe.
Is it wrong that I don’t find him remotely attractive? I tell myself I am being too fastidious. It’s not about looks. Tuesday rolls round and I find myself
trampling across Wimbledon Common to get to the out of the way Fox and Grapes
pub. It’s still daylight so I’m not too
concerned about safety. Adam is waiting
for me with a newspaper and a bottle of red.
Perfect. I take the time to
really look at him. There is no way he’s
35. To describe him, I’d say 45 year old
taxi driver, sparse hair. He mentions
the fact that he looks older than his years and said on a previous date the
girl had asked to see his driving licence.
We laugh at how awful she was. I
really want to see his driving licence.
We get up to leave for the restaurant. Turns out he hasn’t paid for the bottle. Knowing his financial situation I stump up
the cash to avoid an embarrassing situation and head outside. It’s pitch black. I am definitely going to die.
I am now walking across a field in total darkness with a
near stranger who has blatantly lied about his age. I only know his first name. Oh my god I’m going to be on the news. We make it to Wimbledon Village without dying
and we have a nice Italian dinner. I pay
for dinner. What’s the protocol on a
second date? Am I going to have to kiss
him? I still really don’t find him
attractive, in fact, he’s a bit gross. I’m
a bad person. I can’t put it off any
longer and we head outside to the bus stop.
A 93 pulls up and I’m on it like a car bonnet. Hoorah for Transport for London. Saved by the bus.
Stop being so finicky I tell myself on the 15 minute journey
home. He obviously likes me. Don’t you learn to find people attractive? He’s got a really nice personality. *gags
So when he texts me, inviting me over for dinner two nights
later, I accept. The third date. I haven’t even so much as kissed him on the
cheek yet.
I turn up at his apartment in Kingston. It’s the penthouse of a newly built block of
flats with a wrap around terrace facing the river. “Errrr, I thought you were broke?” I inquire.
“Oh that’s just something I tell dates so they don’t go after my money”. Oh. I
am feeling a bit cheesed off adding up how much I have spent on him so far. Plus I don’t like being lied to. He makes me take my ballet pumps off, which
is awkward as I have a hole in my tights.
Note to self, buy new tights.
He has made lasagne and it’s delicious. I go to the bathroom and it dawns on me that
he might have set up a camera by the toilet.
I think just the fact that I imagined he would do that speaks volumes
about my regard for him and how uncomfortable I am finding this date. I decide to tell him that I don’t want to
lead him on any longer and I’d like to just be friends. That was a fun conversation. Understandable he kicks me out. When I get home he has penned a really nasty
email which I’m not going to publish. Oh
the drama. This is supposed to be
fun.
Maybe being picky is not over rated!
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