Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Rule #1: Don't Date The High School Quarterback
I really never dated when I was younger, and it's coming back to bite me in the ass big time. I think by having a constant stream of steady boyfriends from high school on, I never learned how to be single. And by single I mean thick skinned. There's a layer or two of epidermis that I'm missing, which can leave a gal like myself pretty vulnerable if she finds herself dating a self-absorbed high school quarterback who grew up in a world where he was so important and popular that there were no consequences for astonishingly rude behavior.
It doesn't matter that he went blind in his 20's. Or that he's gone through the horrid experience of organ failures and transplants (more than once). Or that he's broken just about every bone in his body skiing and mountain biking. Did I mention he's blind? When you're blind and choose to do these crazy reckless things, you tend to crash & fall down a lot. These pitfalls of life didn't stop this guy, so don't feel sorry for him. He wouldn't want you to. Besides, he's got endorsements. Major endorsements. He's everybody's poster boy. Instead, feel sorry for me, ok?
Because I dated the guy, without realizing he'd been the captain of his high school football team. Had I known that, it would've never happened.
I had a blind date!
We met on the phone. He liked my voice. We flirted. There was chemistry. We met for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. I watched him as he walked in, feeling his way down the length of the establishment by touching the backs of chairs. We sat next to each other and listened in on conversations on the other side of the room, giggling and whispering.
He was cute. Great smile. Cocky. Sharp wit. I picked the red onions out of his salad because I thought maybe he might want to kiss me later. And he did. In fact he turned to me long before I had finished picking through my chicken caesar and said, "Wanna go back to my place and make out like high schoolers?"
I walked around his apartment, looking at his life, framed on the walls: Blind date and Bill Clinton. Blind date as a World Cup skiing champion. Blind date and his saintly mother. He told me that this was a rarity, allowing a woman into his inner sanctum. So for a moment there, I felt special. And then we kissed for a good hour and a half.
Somewhere during that time, I made a mistake. I didn't realize it was a mistake at the time, but now, I get it. I told him I liked him. Bad move. I told him this mainly because it was true. I liked him. And I told him I thought we seemed to be a good match. Another famously bad move. I meant it, though. I just shouldn't have said it. We were having such a good time playing off of each other, making each other seem smarter, funnier, sexier. Our lips fit together pretty well. I wasn't planning our wedding or thinking about where that framed photo of him and the former president was going to go on my living room wall (although I have the perfect place - where the photo of the Eiffel Tower was that disappeared right around the time my ex-husband moved out). I was just thinking, this guy is funny and smart and I like the way he kisses. Sure would like to do this again.
Gee, it's getting late.
Just before I left, he said, "So, what do you want?"
I replied, "I want you to call me."
He said he would. He most definitely would.
He most definitely never did.
Posted by Mistress of the Mix at 8:09 AM