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March 21, 2013
The Date


Why wont this night just end already.
I swear, the second I see Michael again; I’m throwing the next piece of furniture I can find at him for setting up this blind date. I look down at my half eaten plate of spaghetti, over to the fake Italian paintings that line the wall, and at the candle slowly dripping wax onto our table. Anywhere but at Michelle, the girl I’m supposed to be on a date with. Why did Michael have to omit the fact that she is completely out my league? Why didn’t he tell me that she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on? Why didn’t he tell her that I’m only a simple schmuck who someone like Michelle would never want to date? This should be so easy to do…this should be easy to do. It’s just talking isn’t it, why is this so difficult. All I have to do is open my mouth and ask about her day, her hobbies, anything! Girls like that right? Half choking on a piece of spaghetti I managed to utter,
“So…Michael tells me you’re really into books, have you read anything interesting lately?”
Oh god what was I thinking, books, who talks about books anymore? I hope she didn’t even hear that and maybe just considered it some inaudible grunt. She’s hardly talking, I wonder if I could be the first man to actually bore someone to death. Maybe she thinks I can’t speak and Michael sent her to babysit me. God, I feel so stupid. How can I manage to look so quiet and calm when I’m having an internal nuclear meltdown? Oh no! Did she just respond while I’m over here mulling in my own thoughts? Now she must think I’m a bad listener too! This date has gone from bad to worse and I’m starting to feel like a coach being pressured to forfeit because his team is doing so poorly that it’s become embarrassing to watch. If I’m lucky, Ashton Kutcher will come out from behind any of these potted plants telling me I’ve been placed on a new MTV reality show where they set up deadbeats like me with angelic women like Michelle just to see how terribly we do. This whole date must be a cruel, karma-fueled, joke to spite me for not giving money to that homeless man I passed on the street. Regardless, I need to find a way out of this and fast, and I sure hope she’s in no mood for dessert. I politely excuse myself to go to the restroom so I can “powder my nose,” which actually managed to cop a laugh from her. On that bright note, I decide to make a dash for the bathroom all the while wondering how long I can stay in there before it becomes suspicious. 10 minutes? 5 minutes? Seven seems appropriate and when I return she’s looking at me as if I’ve got lobsters crawling out of my ears.
“Now what?” I moan and she points to the bottom of my foot where a lone sheet of toilet paper lays, a constant reminder of this blowout of a date. I keep glancing at the clock but I’m officially convince that time has stopped altogether; perhaps so I can be stuck in this awful moment altogether. After what feels like several centuries have passed, the waiter finally returns with what looks like the dessert menu. Despite a feeble attempt to stealthily ward him off he manages to slap the small, leather-backed menu onto our table.
“Do you really want any dessert?” I ask tentatively as I know that she must already be considering this date a complete failure
“Well, if you don’t want any then I suppose we don’t have to.” I’m just assuming that’s the nice of saying “I want to get as far away as possible from you and pretend that this night never happened,” so I finally managed to order the check. Once I finally made it outside I felt as if I’d just released myself from my own mental prison. We both walk silently to our cars and part ways, never to see each other again. I hope she didn’t think I was ignoring her.

Why won’t this night just end already?
This has got to go on my top ten for worst nights of my life, and it’s all my fault. Why would Michael set me up on a date with somebody completely out of my league? It’s as if he’s just trying to remind me of how awkward I am. I can’t stand to look at him anymore, he’s just too astonishing and I’m too…me. What should have been a lovely evening filled with tea candles, beautiful recreations of Italian Renaissance paintings, and delectable lasagna has evolved into hell on Earth. I wonder what happened to the fun loving Michelle who never cared about what others thought of her. Now, instead of emerging a beautiful social butterfly, I’ve traveled back into the cocoon to become some awkward caterpillar. I feel awful for Babson having to pay for such an incredible dinner that I single-handedly managed to wreak havoc upon. I try to answer what my favority book is but words just can’t seem to emanate from my mouth. Why is this so difficult when all I have to do is form a couple syllables and a magical sentence should appear? Now he probably thinks I’m just ignoring him but I wish I could tell him that someone has sewn my mouth shut. As I watch him excuse himself to the bathroom I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, for I actually have a chance to collect myself before he returns for another round of silent torture. I check my face just in case I’d been keeping him quiet through sheer visual terror but alas there’s no food in my teeth or giant spider standing behind me. Just me. I start to brainstorm topics to talk about but just as I have a great idea starting to form he returns. Oh how I wish he’d taken his time. The toilet paper on his shoe helped dull the storm cloud over our table. A sugary dessert is sure to get the conversation flowing; maybe my sweet tooth is just cranky and won’t let me talk unless I have a double fudge sundae. He asks me if I really want dessert but my mouth manages to betray my stomach when I reply,
“Well, if you don’t want any then I suppose we don’t have to.”
I truly don’t want the night to end for I feel as if I just need time to get warmed up before the conversation will really start, but I can tell that Babson has had more than enough of my shenanigans and we get the check. The walk outside, which I’d hoped would last forever, seemed to be over in an instant and we parted ways without even a goodbye. I silently think to myself how I lost the perfect man because of childish shyness. I hope he didn’t think I was ignoring him.

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