As December approaches, coaxing us toward a more wintry state of mind, the memory of a particularly awful date I had last June gives me a different type of chill.
On the heels of almost a YEAR of bad dates—one of these being with a man who decided to “relate” to my pursuits in health education by indulging me in a story about his past bout with Chlamydia and ANOTHER including a Don Juan who attempted to lure me back to his apartment by citing that he needed help finishing a bottle of wine that was “about to expire”—I managed to find myself out with a man foul enough to make those other guys seem like quintessential Casanovas.
I met this man—we’ll call him BananaHammock to keep his true identity a secret—in a typical fashion. I was at a bar and he asked for my number. Bananahammock was tall with the brawn of a lumberjack worthy of Bounty Paper Towel modeling paired with a boyish face and a curtain of lashes fringing coffee-colored eyes. Being that I am both a caffeine addict and enjoy a man who looks like he knows his way around a forest, I divulged my digits with alacrity. Let it be noted that although Bananahammock was of a sturdy build, he had a layer of jelly masking any washboard abs, probably the result of good ole ale. Being that I feel a spare tire makes a much better pillow than washboard abs, his slight chub around the middle only added to his appeal.
I was dressed to the nines on the night of my date, wearing heels that pinched my feet to the extent of such pain; I knew they had to look good. I was keyed up with excitement to see my date, and even more thrilled to sit down being that the shoes were beginning to choke off my circulation. Bananahammock arrived at the fancy restaurant of his choosing looking even cuter than I remembered.
“Hey there,” he said flashing his pearly whites. “You want to go sit at the bar?”
My heart had been spurred to rapid thumping due to his cuteness, so I was delighted to remedy my situation with some liquor. I ordered tall rum and coke, thinking in terms of Starbucks lingo where tall means small. Apparently, however, tall at a bar means tall and my drink was delivered in a glass that could compete height-wise with a 7-Eleven Big Gulp. A grin spread across Bananahammock’s face at my drink’s arrival and a twinkle of “this girl’s going to get wasted” glimmered along his irises. Little did my suitor know, just because I am pint-sized does not mean I don’t know my way around more than a few pints of booze. Papa Dye blessed his flame-haired daughter with an iron stomach and Irish tolerance—it would take at least a few shots more along with my drink before my words started to get slurred.
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Find the perfect date spot in Baltimore!
An article from CBS Baltimore offers up great ideas for the perfect first date. Made Manual also offers a list of the 10 Best First Date Restaurants in Baltimore. Want to peruse other activities in the area? Visit Baltimore.org for information on everything the Maryland city has to offer.