Von

She’s definitely a keeper.

It’s what crossed my mind as I gazed into the eyes of the lovely young lady with whom I was having dinner.

 

It’s funny how quickly things progress sometimes; just a week earlier I’d noticed her profile online.
An attractive lawyer looking to meet someone new. Why couldn’t that new person be me?

I expressed my interest. She promptly replied, noting that she’d checked out my profile and the feeling was mutual.

She left her number and asked that I call.

 

 

 

Our first conversation went really well.
Her voice was light and feminine—really sexy. The dialogue seemed to flow effortlessly. We conversed for more than an hour; before ending the conversation, I asked if she’d be interested in having dinner soon.

 

 

 

That weekend we sat across from one another at my favorite local restaurant.

 

I was as impressed with her in person as I was by her online profile. She was short with thick, shoulder-length hair. Her skin was a dark, chocolate complexion. Nice, full lips. Her semi-low-cut top showcased her nice lil’ rack. When she excused herself to the bathroom, I got a chance to check out her other assets. Very nice!

 

 

Dinner went well.
She was relieved that my pics weren’t misleading. And impressed by my restaurant choice (“I really like this place”).
We talked about everything—from sports, to religion, to life in general.

At one point she told me about her volunteer efforts. In her spare time, she tutors grade-school kids and helps them with their homework. I was impressed that she devoted time from her busy schedule to help the kiddies (I, on the other hand, spend my free time on the couch watching sports).

 

I told her she was more than just a pretty face.
Corny, I know—but dammit(!), I meant it. And she seemed genuinely moved by the compliment.

 
I began to look for signs that she really was interested. Being an eternal pessimist—I never just assume that a woman will want to see me again. However, she dropped a few subtle hints (“we should work out together one day…”) that put my anxiety to rest.

There would be a second date. Hopefully many more after that.

 

 

 

Soon we decided to call it a night. I picked up the tab. She thanked me for dinner.

As we waited for the valet to return with her car, she asked if I’d like a ride to mine: “I guess it’s safe. You won’t kill me and chop me up.”
With a straight face, I replied: “You never know…”
 “Don’t say that!” she said. We both laughed.

A few minutes later I found myself in her car, parked beside mine.
We made more small talk; she ate a mint before offering me one.

Wait a minute: was this a prelude to an old-school makeout session?

I couldn’t be 100% sure. Some women forbid kissing on the first date. And while it looked like a golden opportunity—I decided to play it safe and live to fight another day.

 

Instead I gave her a big hug and sent her on her way.

30 minutes later I got a text:
Im home & back in bed…thanks for tonight, I really enjoyed meeting u

 

 

Any lingering doubts about her interest were once again extinguished.
I went to bed ecstatic that maybe, just maybe, my search for the right girl was over.
And that my time dealing with flaky chicks was a thing of the past.

 

 

 

I called her a few days later…

…and haven’t heard from her since (almost a month ago).

 

 

damn.

 

 

Now, maybe one day when I’m old and gray with a few grandkids and a loving wife—I’ll look back on this moment and laugh.

 

But for now, seems like I can’t win for losing.

 

Of all the people I could’ve run into in the long office hallway that particular day—why’d it have to be her?

 

 

This would be awkward.

In any other circumstance, she’d smile and say hello.

After noticing me, she promptly folded her arms and looked off to the side. I tried to make eye contact—but ol’ girl was having NONE of it. She briefly looked at me in passing—before quickly looking away.

Yeah, it was uncomfortable.

Then again, did I really think it wouldn’t be awkward between us—after insinuating that I’d ejaculate in her face a few days earlier?

Well, maybe not directly…but…

Allow me to explain:

 

While working 11:30 to 7:30 means that I get to sleep in every morning—it also means that I miss the after-work happy hours that my 9 to 5 co-workers frequent.

So while I was hard at work one Friday night, those fukkers were at the local downtown watering hole gettin’ demolished.

 

I honestly have no idea how it got there. I’m guessing I spilled something on it one day. Something nasty. Whatever the case, there’s been a dreadful mark there for some time—and now my drunken friend was wondering why.

 

However, I decided to have some fun with his punk ass.

 

When asked to clarify, I replied: When no one else is around, I do naughty things in my cube. I relieve myself on the chair.

 
Completely untrue, but more interesting than the truth.

Damn.

I could’ve stopped right then and there, but since my cover was blown, I decided to go all in.

“Tell [co-worker’s name] that if she has a stain on her chair Monday, she knows who to thank.”

I thought that would be the final word, but I was mistaken.

My inebriated co-worker responded: she says she wants a stain on her shirt tonight!

 

 

I doubted that she was capable of saying something so raunchy; dude must’ve made it up. Sadly, that didn’t stop me from sending one last response:

 

“I can aim for the shirt, but it usually ends up in the facial area.”

 

And with that, I finished my work and got on the elevator, leaving for the night.

Funny thing about weekends though—they’re always over before you know it.

Next thing I knew, I was taking the elevator back to my office Monday morning. I remembered that, just a few days ago, I joked about blowing my load in a co-worker’s face! It’d definitely make for an awkward moment when I saw her again.

But, then again, I rarely ran into her. And the next time I did, she’d most likely have forgotten all about it. If, in her drunken state, she even remembered at all! I concluded that the next time I saw her, it wouldn’t be uncomfortable.

 

Sadly, that turned out not to be the case.

 

I thought the email I sent her was HILARIOUS.

 

However, ol’ girl didn’t seem to share my sentiments:
“Obviously some one let you out of your play pen…I am not going to view your link and honestly not interested in conversing with you…So you know the rest…Peace”

 

Damn.

And just like that, my days of dating the young lady who inspired the Rodman Dating Theory were officially over.

 

This monumental fiasco began a few days ago.

I called the aforementioned young lady to confirm that she was coming over the next day (Sunday afternoon) for some home-cooked spaghetti.

During the course of our conversation, she began to tell me about her day.

About riding around all afternoon looking for a digital camera.
Picking up some awesome seafood.
The bad drivers on the road.
Buying some undergarments at Target.

About how—wait a minute…

*record scratches*

 

Did she just say she bought underwear—at Target?!

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that it really don’t matter where a young lady chooses to purchase her unmentionables. I have a hard time imagining that Target’s undergarment selection is any different than other major outlets.

Lace is lace. Cotton’s cotton.

Victoria’s Secret ain’t got a monopoly on bras and panties.

And I am by no means an underwear snob.

 

However, I saw this as a rare opportunity for me to clown.

You see, we’ve been programmed to believe that women only get their undies from lingerie stores.

When we think bras and panties—Vickie’s and Fredrick’s of Hollywood immediately come to mind.

And, uh, I ain’t thinkin’ about no women’s undergarments when I visit my local Target.

Plus, when dealing with a very attractive young lady (like the aforementioned one)—one who’s likely bombarded with compliments by every lame she passes on the street—it’s critical to occasionally give her a nice ribbing. Just to keep her ass grounded.

I saw my opportunity and pounced immediately.

Nothing obnoxious, just some subtle clowning: “Oh, you get your underwear from Target? Interesting…”

I chuckled. She laughed and told me that she gets them from Vickie’s and Frederick’s also. And the Target ones look just as good on her as the others.

And that if I got a chance to see them on her I’d never know the difference.

At that point, I could’ve transitioned to some light flirting (“Oh, I wouldn’t be able to tell if I saw the Target underwear on you? Prove it.”).

 

Instead I kept clowning.

We both laughed; I didn’t really get the sense that she was irritated. She did call me an asshole before we ended the convo— but I thought she was kidding.

 

The next day she texted me that the snowstorm would prevent her from coming across town for dinner.

I replied: “It’s cool. We can do it some other time. Have fun in your Target underwear.”

She replied with an “LOL.”

Everything was still cool. Or at least I thought so.

 

The next morning I took the joke even further. I searched Target’s website for the most hideous panties I could find. I sent her the link in an email with the subject line: I found your Target underwear online.

 

I checked my mail a few hours later, thinking she’d get a good laugh out of it. Because I thought it was hilarious.

Apparently I was mistaken.