I pretty much sped through speed dating last week.
That is to say there were eight men to thirteen women. Eight men including the event planner who participated and his friend he dragged along clearly to help balance out the numbers.
The event was at upscale restaurant/bar that, thankfully, was much closer than the last place I went speed dating. This location was actually near my old stomping grounds and where my ex currently lives.
As we all sat in the bar waiting for the event to start, I flagged down a cute little waiter to bring me a drink. He was very flirty, and he asked what I was doing at such an event. Gauging him to be all of 21, I was relieved when they moved us outside to start the event, thereby cutting his flirtations short.
This time, the women were to rotate in sequential order to the men, and I was lucky enough to be the paired with the Mr. Number One first. As I saw five women chatting amongst themselves until they could rotate in to the first man, I felt VERY lucky indeed. Once I finished Mr. Number Eight I knew I wouldn’t be sticking around.
Mr. Number One, Mike, was cute enough, muscled enough and also just boring enough. And he only had five minutes to show off how boring enough. I can’t imagine an entire dinner.
Mr. Number Two, Howard, was a babysitter. As his profession, need I say more? You can’t even make this stuff up.
Mr. Number Three was the event planner. Now he was interesting and quite charming. He claimed to put on the events because he loved seeing people fall in love. The air suddenly reeked of player. Even still, he was the most enjoyable five minutes I spent there.
Right after him, Mr. Number Four, happened to be the event planner’s friend, Steve. Steve was by far the most attractive and age appropriate guy there. I was clicking with him until he started asking about my aerial silk. He had an event he wanted to book me for so I told him to contact my boss. He wanted to book me directly and got all weird when I stood firm and told him to go through my boss at Circus School.
He was like, “Let’s cut out the middleman, you’ll make more,” with a now-turned sleazy grin.
I felt like I was in a bad movie and wanted to say, “Oh, you going to make me a star baby,” in one of those overly-breathy voices.
I managed to stay polite and moved on through the line until I finished Mr. Number Eight. John was very nice but recently divorced with a son close to my age. Thanks, but no thanks.
I told the event planner unfortunately, I couldn’t stay and waited patiently to fill out my paper work. While I was waiting, my cute waiter found me and started chatting me up again. He turned out to be 22, actually, so I wasn’t far off in my earlier guess.
Things were going well until his friend came over. I forgot exactly why but his friend ended up calling me a cougar! I have NEVER been called that! I just turned thirty! I got out of there as fast as humanly possible but not before the cute waiter slipped me his number. I politely took it, but seriously, what am I going to do with a 22-year-old?
Still reeling from the cougar comment, I called up my ex and had him meet me at a bar by his house so he could reassure me that I am not a cougar. He diligently did so and we managed to even have a nice time.
As he helped me to my car he told me one last time, “That punk is an idiot. You are in no way a cougar.”
He kissed my cheek and waved good night. As I started my car I look down and saw the scrap of paper with the young waiter’s number on it. "Hmmm," I wondered again. "What could I do with a 22-year-old?"
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Kimmie is a graphic designer, full time dog-mom and aspiring aerialist. You can keep up with her craziness on her blog life-withdogs.blogspot.com and follow her on twitter at @lifewithdoggies.