Today I have my very first date with Someone From The Internet.
I would be nervous if I had any real expectations of this encounter, but I honestly don’t. Having long since given up trying to judge from people’s profiles whether we’re likely to be compatible or not, I decided just to go out with the first person to ask. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
So I’m feeling quite cool about it all when the moment arrives. But, as a precaution, our first encounter is at lunchtime. And since I’m the lady and I get to choose, I’ve picked the coffee shop that I visit every morning before work. I’ve even primed the sexy barista to keep an eye on things for me.
In the event, I needn’t have worried. My Someone From The Internet is a perfectly nice chap. Perfectly unattractive to me, too, unfortunately, but definitely not in the ‘axe wielding maniac’ category.
As we linger over an espresso (yes, as long as all that), it becomes apparent that we have approximately nothing in common: although he likes walking weekends, he hates gyms, which is where I spend 50% of my free time. He has a teenaged son, which I don’t mind per se, but I feel far too young to be hanging out with the parents of teenagers. And he loves two of the very few kinds of music that I find unbearable: jazz and 70s rock.
During the conversation, it becomes apparent that our points of view also differ in all sorts of little, everyday things. Worse still, there’s absolutely no hint of anything spark-like. Not even a tiny bit.
Still, we gamely string it out for 40 minutes, before making our excuses and getting up to go. Pleading a visit to the little girls’ room, I wave him off and turn round to find the sexy barista standing in front of me.
“So?” he says.
I make the kind of face that doesn’t quite look as if I’ve sucked a lemon, but isn’t exactly indicative of wild enthusiasm either.
“So when do I get my turn?” he asks.
“When you ask for it,” I say.
This is pretty pert, coming from me. Despite being bubbly and gregarious in all sorts of situations, lately, my default reaction when confronted by attractive men – which in all honesty, isn’t very often – tends towards ‘rabbit in headlights’.
In fact, even this smidgen of boldness brings me out in a fluster, and I’m not exactly sure how it happens, but I end up giving him my phone number.
By the time I leave, I’m so befuddled that I can’t remember if I’m supposed to be popping in tomorrow morning or if I nixed that by burbling about a prior arrangement, but in any case, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself: not only did I break my dating site duck, I also gave my number to a hot man!
Immediately, my brain starts thinking of all sorts of reasons why this might be a bad idea, so to shut it up, I do the mental equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and bawling, “Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la -la-laaaah!”
Sure, we might be completely incompatible once the conversation extends beyond, “Small cappuccino, please,” but equally, we might not. And besides, I’m just hugely excited that a real, live, hot man TOOK MY PHONE NUMBER!
Unless, of course, he decides not to call me. That would turn my morning espresso into a coffee-coated walk of shame. Ohmigod, can you imagine if he just doesn’t call me?
Now, wait a minute. Hot man or no hot man, I’m not turning myself into a nervous wreck. Excuse me just a moment…
Join in if you know the words…
“Tra-la-lah! Tra-la-la-la-laaaah! Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaah!”