Context: I had been chatting with “Accountant” on Tinder, and we made plans to meet at Don Tito’s (lol why) on a Friday night. That was busy, so we tried Fuego, also busy. Who are these wild people out on a Friday night?! Crazy. We settled on my standby/true love, La Tasca, because nothing soothes my soul quite like blackberry-mango sangria and chicken empanadas. Note: La Tasca still isn’t paying us for this promotion, and I’m pretty upset about it.
Do you all remember those chain messages that we used to get in like, middle school via the Myspace “Notes” function? Or via email? Haha, email, so passé. I communicate solely through double-chin up-the-nose snapchats. It’s why I get so many hot dates.
ANYWAY. You know what I’m talking about. Like, “forward this to 15 people in the next 7.5 seconds or else a headless clown will come to your house in the middle of the night and pelt you with legos until you combust in flames.” Terrifying.
As luck would have it, there is a 9-year-old girl named Charlotte who somehow has my phone number and, for whatever reason, thinks that I am her friend Sarah. No matter how many times I respond that she has the wrong number, she keeps coming back, citing that “it has to be right, Sarah! Your mom gave me this number!”
Hate to break it to you, Charlotte, but I don’t think Sarah’s mom wants you to talk to her daughter.
I received one such chain message from Charlotte last week, only this one implored me to forward its wrath along to my fifteen closest friends (an unfortunately impossible task, seeing as I only have, like, three friends max) (jk I’m popular AF) (I’ll stop carrying on parenthetical conversation with myself now) (or will I?!). Failure to complete this task promised ten years of bad luck* in romance. Ten years? That’s, like, 52 x 4ish x 10 = big number more Tinder dates that I’ll have to go on! THE HORROR.
*This is, quite honestly, no different from the past ten years
So, might as well get started now! I met up with accountant at Fuego, and HE WAS TALLER THAN ME. Praaaaaaise. We tried to get a seat at the bar, but there was nary a chair/stool/inch of floor space remaining, so I recommended that we pop on over to La Tasca. As we walked across the street, things took a sharp turn for the worse.
A – Hey, so your profile said that you work for [COMPANY], right?
J – Yep! Where do you work?
A – I work there, too!
NO. I have a VERY STRICT “do not date your coworkers” policy**, and here I was, BREAKING IT for this moderately attractive man. Well, I was in too deep now, and might as well stick it out. I tried to defuse the situation in any way I could think of:
J – So, what office are you out of?
A – McLean!
J – [ughhhhhh NOOOOO] Oh cool! Yeah, that’s where I work out of. You’re probably never there because you’re at the client site, though, right? Right?!?!
A – Nope! I’m in the office 99% of the time. How about you?
J – [Well, I’m about to do a hell of a lot more ‘working from home’ to avoid running into you] Usually in McLean as well! Hahaha, small world!
Maybe I should just change offices or jobs or countries or universes.
**Because I will, at some point in my career, walk out of the bathroom with my dress tucked into my pantyhose (gross word, sorry) and toilet paper attached to my shoe, and then I will bump into someone carrying a tray full of meat-sauce-laden spaghetti, and then ricochet off that person into someone else’s cup of hot coffee, and fall to the floor at that person’s feet, writing in pain and embarrassment. And that person will inevitably be the guy that I once went on a date with. Hey, would this be a good threat to put in a chain text? I’ll tell Charlotte.
The date itself was a fine, friendly affair. Since our lord and savior Jesus Christ had bolded and italicized my date’s expiration date, I was able to relax and chug my sangria with reckless abandon. He paid, we hugged, and I waved him off with a “See you around the office please don’t mention this to anyone we both know!!!”
Moral of the story is don’t date coworkers, but if you do, make sure they’re older because then if they look like they expect you to pay, you can give them one of those “I know your salary is higher than mine, asshole” glares. Works every time.