What was I thinking?

Brian was my first and only blind date. A mutual friend knew that we were both young, single, professional people and she  thought that matchmaking might be exciting.

I hope it was enjoyable for her.

Brian called to make the initial contact and arrangements.  He chose our rendezvous spot—a local bar that had two floors, and we were meeting upstairs.  Upstairs was considered the hot spot for the white-collar clique of our small rural city. Downstairs was where I usually hung out. I was a first-floor gal—a “local”, a commoner, who liked beer, pizza and loud rock and roll. Upstairs people preferred jazz, wine, and the sound of their own voice.

Brian and I met Upstairs for drinks.  He was not my type: my height, blonde and doughy.  His face reminded me of Underdog.

Pretty impressive as a cartoon hero dog, but not so much as a date...

Not being superficial and raised to be painfully polite or suffer the consequences in hell, I stayed. We introduced ourselves  awkwardly, ordered drinks, and he asked me about myself.  Good enough start.  I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of my life to that point: local girl, local public school education, unsure of my career aspirations, and my greatest source of joy was my magnificent Old English Sheepdog named Humphrey, my best friend and roommate.  My story took, maybe, five minutes.

Approximately two hours and five drinks later, I learned a lot about Brian.  Private schools were the only academic institutions worthy of merit or mention.  The area I called “home” was the most abysmal place in the Universe and its native inhabitants were quite low on the food chain. The only redeeming value to this hell into which he had landed a job practicing law was the opportunity for outdoor activities, in which he fancied himself an Olympian: hiking, cross-country skiing, and canoeing.

He didn’t simply malign my hometown and me (as one of those moronic “locals”), he did it in exquisitely, excruciatingly lengthy detail.  On top of his arrogance and prejudice, he smoked.  In the “dream date” department store, he was located in the Bargain Basement, in the bin clearly marked “Nightmares: Reduced for Immediate Sale.”

During his two-hour tirade, Brian brightened only when he spoke about the love of his life who broke his heart but who still was Queen of All Womankind. She was perfection. She came from some Nordic country. Her name was Ingrid or Elsa or Icelandic Wonder Woman.  Why did they part? I missed that little detail. Being a publicly educated loser, what can one expect?

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I can't compete with her. I have a dog, not a horse. And my breast-plate is out for repairs...

Five drinks didn’t make Brian look any better. Since I clearly wasn’t a contender in the “Brian’s Nordic Dream Girl Replacement” search, I figured this fiasco was over.

But Brian wasn’t finished with me.

“So, would you like to have dinner sometime?” Brian asked offhandedly after explaining that he always started off dating with  “just drinks” in case he didn’t care for the woman.

I was stunned. And when I’m stunned, I often say things I later regret.

Stay tuned for what I regretfully replied…