As I strolled slowly down Columbia Road toward imminent disaster because I let another floozy matchmaker from It’s Just Lunch set me up (mostly because I paid $1300 bucks last year and I want my damn money’s worth), I passed by the Christ House. The Christ House is where the beat-down homeless (I think) men with three teeth and one leg hang out smoking menthols and chatting each other up. I like walking by them. They’re always so friendly, and I always know if I look good because one of them will inevitably grunt in a raspy voice with the depths of a trombone, “Hey gurrl.”
Tonight, a short, moon-faced bearded man in a canary yellow tee shirt straight out of a Good Will pile from the ’70s serenaded me. “Givin’ your love to me could never be wrong, if your love is true…” He sang it low under his tobacco breath just for me, and gazed at what seemed to be my chest with his glassy eyes, slyly smiling his three-toothed grin. I grinned back
I grinned the whole way down the street even though I was headed into date death, remembering four nights ago when Simon and I serenaded each other with the same song, giggling and singing because ole Marvin was trying so hard to get into someone’s—anyone’s—pants with those lyrics. It was a sweet moment. So cute, I could puke like my cat after inhaling a can of Friskies turkey giblets dinner.
I was meeting my date at Tryst where I spent enough time this summer cuddled up on their couches with Simon to feel like a total cheater. I almost called to cancel, but I couldn’t. Too late. And I’d specifically set this date for after Simon left so I’d have something to keep my mind occupied. I’ve been on five of these matchmaker dates and they’ve all been bloody hell. The last one was the WORST date I’ve ever been on—in my life. My mom told me I HAD to go on one more date through IJL. Just to see if they could do any better than the guys they picked out for me last fall. So I did. And ended up with a little troll who quizzed me on my high school clique status for 45 minutes and paid for his drink before I got there so he wouldn’t have to pay for mine (of course, all IJL dates are supposed to be Dutch.) I called my mom as soon as I left the bar and told her she owed me 45 minutes and $8.
This surely wouldn’t be much different.
But it was.
D. was actually pretty cool. (Of course, this is in comparison to the legions of douche bags I’ve already been out with—my expectations were set so low, he couldn’t really fail.) Sure chest-hair stubble poked out of his collar, his nails were nubbins and I compared him to Simon the whole time, but he was an easy-going guy with a full head of hair who used to romanticize when he was younger about building his own log home. Perfect right? He had me laughing pretty hard at I don’t even remember what because I was already well into my second PBR, and I felt pretty special when he told me he could talk to me all night. The “i’m a christian boy” comment smacked of deal breaker. But I don’t have to marry the dude. Just keeping occupied.