Date Stories, J

J: The southern margarita man

Context: I matched with “Southerner” on Tinder solely because my roommate’s boyfriend M, who I adore, was a mutual friend. Naturally, I took a screenshot of his profile and asked for M’s endorsement.
J: How do you know this man??
M: Lol get off Tinder
J: C’mon, old buddy, ol pal, help a sista out!
Through work? Volleyball? Time in the local penitentiary? Work?

So, we made plans to meet up at Don Tito’s at 8 PM on Thursday night.


Guess what shawties? I’m writing this blog post from THE SKY. That’s right, I’m currently on an airplane to my best friend’s wedding, trying fervently to determine whether I can convince the older man behind me to buy me wine. I am providing him with a quite seductive view of the back of my head, after all – it’s really the least that he can do. And, while my bestie is about to get hitched, I’m basking in the glow of the excellent date I went on last night!

My roommates and I are moving elsewhere in DC* on Monday, and my life has been a blur of packing, crying, and eating the entire contents of our refrigerator and freezer. I am the picture of health. So, I was surprised when I looked up from a box full of bakeware last night and saw that it was already 7:55 PM. I shot off a text to my date to let him know that I would be late, because I’m the worst. He was already waiting outside the restaurant, but let me know that he’d be out front when I got there. #WasteHisTime2016 in action!

*If you think I’d tell you where, you’re mistaken, ya stalkers.


As I approached, I noticed that he was pretty cute. This was good because I actually hadn’t looked at his pictures – just at our mutual friend. What can I say? I live dangerously. He did have a bit of a southern drawl that I had difficulty understanding at first, but it quickly grew on me – just like mold on one of those fancy French cheeses.


Our date was going well (mostly because I was sucking back tequila at a rate that was quite impressive to Southerner) when the heavens opened and sent a flood upon Clarendon. I know this because the entire frat party of people who had been schmoozing on the rooftop came thundering down the stairs and into our quiet date haven like a herd of crazed wildebeest.

And, by wildebeest, I mean horny fuckboys. Holy shit, guys, I was immediately reminded why I only go to Don Tito’s before the sun sets. Older men were preying on scantily clad women (SO MUCH AWKWARD BUTT TOUCHING), while the women made it clear that they were only in this for the credit card. This was very fun to observe from the safety of our table, until some bitch deposited her three* empty shot glasses next to my margarita, and a young couple started grinding on the corner of our table. At this point, my wallet of a date (software developer means $$$$ thank god) paid our bill and we headed downstairs.

*I appreciate her.


Finally able to hear ourselves think, the date picked back up. We took a seat at a tall table, and I proceeded to sabotage myself by accidentally saying something blog-related. And by accidentally, I mean I was drunk.
J: Wow, this is so much better than the time I went on a date with a guy who paid with a coupon!
S: Haha, what?
J: Yeah, and then I went out with him again and introduced him to my grandparents but not in a weird way!
S: Interesting…?
J: I have a lot of stories I guess! Hahaha!
…do you have stories??? Please have stories. Maybe just one. Throw me a bone. I’ll stop talking now.*
S: Actually, I once went on a Tinder date with this girl, but she was really boring and I really didn’t want to be there.


At this point, the crippling feeling of self-consciousness that every woman is born with kicked into overdrive.


J: Are… are you… are you talking about me?!
*Moment of truth*
S: What? No! You’re awesome!

My self esteem high-fived itself. Mama** got her groove back.

*It has recently come to my attention that I have the conversational intelligence of a kindergartener.
**If you buy me a shot, I promise that I will never refer to myself as “mama” ever again.


I started yawning at a socially unacceptable rate shortly thereafter, and a cursory glance at my watch informed me that it was 11 PM. Time to bounce, lest this boy think that I intend to spend the night with him. We left the bar and made out in the street a little as onlookers jeered, and then I floated home, tossing packing materials off my bed so I could jump in and sigh dramatically.*

*As one does when she’s convinced her life is a sitcom and she’s being filmed at all times. Can’t wait for these royalty checks!

So, when’s a good time to tell him that I’ll be traveling to Phoenix for work for the next five weeks?!



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