I’ve said before that my sexy stock is consistently on the rise, but I have never really considered myself to be an actual form of currency. I mean, a group of soldiers may have been involved in negotiations to exchange me for a herd of goats at one point, but goat meat is such an acquired taste, and the potential husband seemed a bit sketchy, so the deal was never brokered. I was set up on this date; however, as a method of payment for sprinkler repair. Really. I don’t even know what the cash equivalency would be for that, but apparently, this guy earned the opportunity to take me to breakfast by performing manual labor. He was comfortable with the terms of payment. I don’t want to think too hard about what that might make me because hey! Free breakfast.
I distinctly remember making a rule about first dates which require the setting of an alarm. But I’ve never been very good at following rules. Besides, he worked the night shift at the hospital; I figured the least I could do was set an alarm and meet him just after his shift ended.
He chose the restaurant, and despite my best time management efforts, I was late. Naturally. But not extremely. He didn’t seem too upset by my tardiness (or even at all).
He recommended a dish called “The Pile” which was basically just a hodge podge of breakfast foods thrown on top of a plate. I read the first few ingredients from a list that went on and on and on, and it sounded good to me (although it was way too early for me to be eating breakfast; I typically don’t eat until several hours after I wake up). I ordered it based on his recommendation, and when it arrived it really was just a large pile of food. To be honest, it was a bit on the bland side. It took me a while to figure out what was wrong with it. At first I was thinking that it might just need salt, but then I realized, there was no bacon. Or sausage. Or meat of any kind. That’s not breakfast. I probably would have done well to read the entire ingredient list before I placed my order. Then I would have known that I needed to order a side of breakfast meat. I finished about half of it, and boxed the rest to take home. Only I didn’t go home. I went to my sister’s house to train her dog and fell asleep on her couch. But she was kind enough to cook bacon for me so I could finish my breakfast as it was meant to be eaten.
This was actually a double date (with the couple who set us up). I seem to be doing that lately. I think it’s because people read about how much fun first-dating is and they want to be a part of it. Who can blame them? I certainly can’t.
Apart from his terrible taste in breakfast food, it was an enjoyable experience. We all laughed a lot, and we each laughed a lot. He offered to be the couple’s personal handyman in exchange for more dates. At the time I wasn’t sure if he meant more dates with me, or just more dates in general. He followed up with them later, and apparently it’s the former. While I’m flattered by the offer, I don’t particular want to be payment for unclogging an overflowing toilet.
That makes 13. Just 37 to go. That’s still a lot of first dates.