There are some dates that make you want to open the freezer and drink straight from the vodka bottle the minute you come home. Last Saturday night was one of those dates. He was cute, blond, dimpled; he screamed Abercrombie and frat houses.
After numerous conversations with girlfriends demanding I open my world and date men other than my type (old, neurotic and insane), I decided to go on a date with a clean-cut guy who was my age, normal, and seemingly had all his marbles.I spent two hours at an Indian restaurant, listening to the nuances of being a rental car representative. Yes, two hours of my life wasted discussing dings, dents, frustrated clients, insurance, and learning that renting a car was a privilege and not a right. Perhaps I didn’t emphasize the importance of this philosophy. Imagine, if you will, a face contorted with smug displeasure – dimples morphing into demonic indentations, fingers interlaced, chest thrown forward, and a voice deep with derision telling me in complete seriousness, “What none of these people understand is that renting a car is a privilege and not a right.” He conceitedly described his ability to deny absolutely anyone a rental car – “even the President!” he exclaimed with pride.
What he didn’t understand was I didn’t give a crap. I was willing to overlook the fact he was a rental car representative; after all, he was young and just starting out in his career. But there was no way I could tolerate having a boyfriend who would take his job that seriously; a rental car representative scoffing at clients who refuse to add $10-a-day insurance to their car is just too much for any girl to handle.
Did I have to bear the brunt of his displeasure with frustrated clients who disliked the company’s policy of checking a car for damage after check-in? Did I have to know that one of the regulars tried another company and then came back grateful to return to their tried-and-true rental place? Did I really sit across from him for an entire date and nod in agreement?
Masochism must run in my blood to have endured the tedious conversation.
Dimples gave him the right to talk way more than any man should on a first date, but they did not forgive the dominating endless barrage of details I had to endure.
Your job isn’t that important – get over yourself.
On the drive back from the restaurant I prayed that he wouldn’t kiss me, that I could get away from the date without inflicting any more torture on myself. At my doorstep, I was successful in interrupting him after two attempts and closed the evening with a forced hug, leaving no opportunity for kissing.
As I kicked off my heels and congratulated myself on not telling him to shut up and managing to escape the dreadful goodnight kiss, I realized dating me was a privilege and not a right – and he was denied.