Tag Archives: dating

Table for One, Please… Crashed by a High-Fiver

“Table for one, please.” At first I hated saying it. For some reason it carries a sense of embarrassment, probably because the waiter or waitress always responds back with, “Oh, just one?” as if it is unthinkable that a person would be dining alone, especially on a weekend. Not to mention all the other patrons coming in couples and groups of friends, looking over at you as if to feel sorry for the poor girl sitting there by herself.

After a short adjustment period where I must admit I felt awkward and slightly embarrassed, I began to rather enjoy my moments alone. I love the company of others and I’m a very social creature, but sometimes it’s refreshing to go out and not worry about forming topics of conversation. How many times in life’s daily grind do we get these precious moments to ourselves to reflect on the day?

There I was enjoying a cup of tea at my table for one, when I saw him approaching. He was tall with light brown eyes and his lips had a devious sort of curve about them. I wouldn’t describe him as handsome, but there was certainly something attractive about him. “Tea on a Saturday night?” he asked with a chuckle. “Yes,” I said, “I know it doesn’t seem very exciting.”

We started into conversation about where I was from and why I was here in Bothwell of all places. “Would you like a real drink?” he asked. I hesitated, “Sure, I guess. Amaretto on the rocks.” I watched him raise his right hand and I watched it come towards me. I quickly realized what was happening and raised my right hand to meet his in the air… in a high-five. “Good choice,” he said. I was taken back for a moment. Did he just high-five me? He turned from the table and walked to the bar to gather our drinks.

The conversation was going quite well. He seemed nice enough, interesting. He was an engineer of some kind and had done a fair amount of travelling across Europe. I said I had done my fair share as well. “What has been your favorite place so far?” he asked. “Berlin, Germany.” I answered. “I love Berlin! I spent a few weeks there with my mate,” he said excitedly. There it was again, his right hand rising into the air across the table for a high five. This is just becoming comical, I thought. I suddenly felt like I was in a Seinfeld episode with a real-life David Putty.

 The conversation continued to favorite types of music. He had played in a band with friends for four years at university. “What type of music did you play?” I asked. “Did you ever hear of the Shins?” he replied, “They were our inspiration. That indie-folky sound.” “I really like the Shins,” I said. Oh gees, here it comes again, that right hand rising up and across the table. I’m trying desperately to not buckle over in laughter.

This is unreal. A real-life high-fiver. “I’m sorry I have to meet someone somewhere. Pleasure meeting you,” I said. I grabbed my coat and without even stopping to put it on, I scampered toward the door. I started walking down the hill into the cold, laughing with every step. How do I get so lucky to attract such fine gentlemen? And so there it was, my table for one crashed by a high-fiver.

Dear normal men of the world, please start existing.

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Dissecting a Bad Date: where did it all go wrong?

We had met the other night, briefly. It was late and I was walking past as he asked for directions. “I’m not sure,” I said, “I’m not from here.” He seemed nice enough, about my age, a seemingly sweet fellow. We chatted about twenty odd minutes. “Maybe we can go for drinks on Friday?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, “here is my number.” What do I have to lose, I thought. A Friday with the possibility of good conversation versus another night sitting at a bar by myself seemed like a no-brainer.

My friend joked that I would be like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday and I’d find my Jude Law. A charming thought… maybe it was pessimism or realism that made me doubt I’d live the dream of the female who goes abroad and falls madly, deeply in love with a complete stranger with a sexy accent. That is for the movies, although a charming sentiment.

I boarded the train and had a few moments of chick flick surrealism allowing myself to think maybe I could be a Cameron Diaz, real life version, meeting my Jude Law. I quickly laughed at the thought, realizing how stupid that really was.

I arrived at the meeting point about fifteen minutes early. He walked in promptly at 8 o’clock, the agreed upon time. I ordered a red wine and he, a beer. I typically go for taller gents as I’m slightly taller for a female. Height would never be a deal breaker for me, but when I stood up to the bar to order my drink, it became apparent how short he really was. I hadn’t noticed the other night because he had been sitting down. I was towering several inches above him. It didn’t help that I had chosen to wear heels. Whatever, I thought. Height is just a physical thing anyway.

I was slightly put-off by the fact he arrived in a t-shirt. I put forth the effort to get dressed up and I even wore heels, a very rare thing for me to do. And he, for a first date, a first impression, shows up in a t-shirt of all things. Laziness, I thought, sheer laziness and lack of effort. Whatever, so he is short and he chose to wear a t-shirt in a place where all the other men are dressed nicely in button-ups and sport coats. Maybe I’m being too critical, I thought.

The night began fine with casual conversation. He appeared to have a decent sense of humor, an important thing to me. By the time I had finished half a glass of wine, he had drank nearly four pints of beer. Okay… maybe he will slow down, maybe he was just nervous and the beer is a confidence booster. By the time I ordered my second glass, he must have been about ten pints deep and his personality drastically altered… drunk.

He tells me I am beautiful. “Thank you,” I said feeling slightly awkward. And then suddenly as if I have no real name, every sentence he begins with calling me beautiful. I have to be honest, that word is flattering at first in the right situation, but when it becomes the beginning of every sentence, it loses its appeal and quickly becomes annoying and insincere. I feel myself losing my patience and wanting to leave.

We leave the bar and begin walking toward the Christmas lights I’ve heard so much about in George Square. He tries to grab my hand and I promptly move it, avoiding the attempt at handholding. I am not a particularly large fan of public displays of affection as it is and although I’d have no problem holding hands with a boyfriend in public, I do have qualms about holding hands with a complete stranger. He makes another attempt and I so obviously once again avoid the handhold for a second time. Again, he tries and is denied. Are you not getting the hint here, I think.

Twenty minutes later I say I must catch the train back home. “Will I see you again?” he asks. I don’t respond at first and with hesitation I say, “We’ll see.” But we both know that is the last time we will be seeing one another. Another first and last date. I’m cold and annoyed and can’t walk away fast enough. Maybe I am a bad person, a shallow person, but as I walk to the train station I think to myself, “He was short anyway…”

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