I went on a date once.
Didn’t know it was a date until he told our server that it was.
If I had known it was a date I would have taken the extra two minutes before leaving my house to take off my fleece-lined tights before putting my jeans on over top.
Since I thought it was a casual thing, I didn’t care so much about looking good. That’s why my face looked like a sweaty tomato on our “date.” Because I was wearing jeans over top of my fleece-lined tights and was rapidly overheating as we talked about Earnest Hemingway and Charles Bukowski.
If I had known it was a date I wouldn’t have ordered two eleven-dollar drinks.
Sure, they were smooth and delicious and possibly the tastiest drinks I’ve ever had, but twenty-two dollars is a hefty price for two drinks.
And he paid.
Leaving me feeling awful for my twenty-two dollars worth of non-refundable liquid delight.
If I had known it was a date I would have put in a little more effort – acted a bit more feminine and less “Aw hey thar Pete, pass me them there brussel sprouts, please and thank yeh.”
Alright, it wasn’t exactly like that, but I still could have acted a bit more lady-like.
Perhaps it was the combination of my pseudo-hick-ish behavior and my sweaty tomato face that prevented him from calling again. I suppose I’ll never know.