It was only a day or so after things crashed and burned on my date with Jack when OKCupid emailed me a “match,” alerting me that someone was interested. After checking out my match’s lengthy profile, which was refreshing to see since lots of guys write the bare minimum, he seemed to have a lot of potential. He loves dogs, has a great job, appears to share my values, plays baseball, enjoys being outdoors and was pretty damn cute, to boot. I figured it couldn’t hurt to shoot him a message. Just over a week later and after many exchanges back and forth, he asked me out for drinks. Obviously, I said yes.
He only lives 15 minutes away from me and suggested we meet up in my town, which was great since I’ve been dying to try out a new local bar. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I looked hot. I put on tight black jeans, a cute white top with some peek-a-boo cut-outs and sky high heels. I looked just the right amount of understated sexy and I felt good. I was told to look for the guy in the blue shirt sitting outside in front of the bar. When I arrived and saw him, I was relieved to see that he was actually cuter in person. He greeted me with a warm smile and big hug, and I felt immediately comfortable.
Our date was going great, and, though I didn’t think it was possible, he even talks more than I do. We chatted about his job and his brief stint in the military, the “unofficial rules” of online dating and how they’re complete bullshit, and swapped stories from our childhood. When he grabbed his glass and took a swig, I noticed a scar just under his nail on his index finger.
“How’d you get that scar on your finger?” I asked, which he returned with a smile.
“Funny story,” he said. “I actually almost sliced off my fingertip in my seventh grade shop class. I didn’t even feel the saw blade go through my skin until I saw the blood everywhere.” My jaw dropped. I held up my pinky finger and said, “You see this scar? This is from when I ALSO almost cut my fingertip off in seventh grade wood shop. It was a scroll saw and the aftermath was not pretty, but thankfully a few stitches did the trick.” We were scar twins.
As we continued talking about our general clumsiness and dashed carpentry dreams, I kept thinking about how weird it was that we shared the same, yet totally uncommon story. What are the odds? Was this a sign? Three hours later, we were still having a great time so we kept the drinks coming* and continued to chat about the most random things with the ease and comfort of old friends. Correction: Old, very flirty friends. For the next 10 minutes, we discussed toilet seat equality and why men are always expected to put the toilet seat down for women, but why women aren’t expected to lift it up for men. I’m still trying to come up with a good reason other than “we have complicated vaginas, so cut us some slack.” Scar Twin and I decided to grab one more drink nearby just for a change of scenery, and at this point it was safe to say I’d hit my limit. Besides, it was getting late and I was ready for a goodnight kiss.
He offered to drive me home since it was now close to two in the morning and I had walked to the bar, so I accepted, feeling firmly confident he wasn’t a serial killer. He pulled in front of my apartment, I thanked him for a fun night and he leaned in to kiss me. That kiss turned into a t10 minute makeout session in his front seat, because apparently that’s how I roll these days. It was passionate, but familiar, and he tasted delicious.
“That was a hell of a first kiss,” he said, and I nodded in agreement.
“So does ‘first kiss’ mean there’s more where that came from?” I asked, hoping he’d ask me out again.
“Definitely. Let’s go out again soon,” he said. At this point we said goodnight, agreed to talk soon and I got out of his car, fully aware that all eyes were on me as I walked a mere six feet to my front door.
I drunkenly strutted away and made it up two stairs when my heel missed the third step— I blame it on the darkness and the al-al-al-al-al-alcohol. As I held onto the railing, my body swung backwards, flew around to the other side of the railing, and I somehow narrowly escaped falling on my ass or face planting into the bushes. Like Jennifer Lawrence at the Oscars, but without the Academy Award. Once I regained my composure and heaved myself back upright, he rolled down his window and with a huge smile on his face, holding back laughter, said, “I saw that.”
“Of course you did,” I yelled back without turning back around to face him.
“It was a very natural fall!” he yelled out the window as I continued to walk away laughing, totally mortified.
“You made it look classy!” he yelled. “Sexiest fall I’ve ever seen!”
I turned him around, smiled a huge smile and gave him the middle finger. He laughed, yelled “goodnight” again and drove off. A little while later, he texted me that he got safely home (per my request) and he told me again how much fun he had. I agreed, but I’m hoping the next time I’ll be able to stay upright. I prefer not to get horizontal until at LEAST the fourth date.
[Photo: Getty Images]
* Note From Dater X: To clarify, we “kept the drinks coming,” but Scar Twin was nursing his more than I was (plus, I’m much smaller than him and also a bit of a lightweight). The date lasted almost five hours, and while he was absolutely fine to drive by the time we headed out, I was definitely tipsier than he was. My apologies for not making that clearer!