Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.
I didn’t screw up this time. No, really! For once, I didn’t screw up at all. That’s rare for me. I screw up a lot. Sometimes I even screw up on purpose, just because I think it’ll be funny. But not this time. For the first time in my 28 years of existence, I was full of awesome.
It’s slightly disconcerting when you realize that a comment like “I didn’t fuck up this time!” could easily be an exciting statement for anything in your life: Work, relationships, bill payments, bar mitzvahs you’ve attended. However, this particular instance referred to dating. I know what you’re thinking. “Paul on a date? He’s far too socially awkward and curmudgeonly to attract normal women.”
You’re not wrong. The type of women I usually attract are either completely homicidal or are looking for a broken man to fix up to their liking. But once the homicidal ones realize I’m 28 years old, work as a temp, and only write for this newspaper, they decide it’s meaner to let me live. Once the fix-him-up girls realize my lifelong goal is to wear jeans and a t-shirt to my own wedding, they also give up.
But this girl was different. She was not only normal in a psychological sense, but attractive and interesting, so I tried my hardest to impress her. First of all, I showed up for the date on time. I never show up for anything on time, not even funerals. Secondly, I told interesting stories that did not involve me or my friends throwing up on something. Thirdly, I made her laugh without having to get her drunk first. These traits are definitely the calling card of a charming man.
In fact, I liked this girl so much that I want to protect her by changing her name for this column. I don’t want to cause embarrassment by using her real name. So instead of calling her Morgan, I will refer to her as “Mrs. Peepers”. This is not a description of her personality (she didn’t look like a cat or have voyeuristic tendencies, as far as I could tell), I just find that name amusing. She’s not married either, but “Mrs. Peepers” sounds a lot funnier than “Miss Peepers”. Trust me on this one.
My choice to refer to her as “Mrs. Peepers”, no matter how much I try to justify it , is probably also a good example of how I ruin dates by choosing to be funny instead of sincere.
Anyway, Mrs. Peepers and I had a lovely evening. We met at a nice restaurant for dinner, where I opened doors for her and let her sit on the side of the table that faced the fewest number of fat people. I was polite, entertaining, and sweet. I did not regale her with my impressive knowledge of Spanish profanity, no matter how badly I wanted to. I did not stare at her boobs, even though she had obviously spent some time arranging them before arriving.
Seriously, that was really difficult.
Mrs. Peepers and I spent a lot of time discussing our interests and hobbies. When she discussed music, I mentioned that I get drunk while listening to music four or five times per week. When she mentioned that she loves to travel, I mentioned how I get drunk while watching the Discovery Channel. When she said she enjoys being active and doing outdoorsy things, I refrained from laughing at her. We both had a lovely time.
I called and left a message for Mrs. Peepers two days after our date. “Yo Peepers!” I shouted into the phone. “I’m gonna date you to the max!” It’s weird, but even after seven days, I still haven’t heard back from her. Maybe she’s gay or retarded?
Why don’t I ever get second dates?
