A Date with Murphy's Law

When I met Ricky, it was at a coffee shop in the middle of a bright and bustling little town. We were reading books by the same author, and happened to lock eyes from across the patio. He came to sit with me, and we hit it off. It was exhilarating. Having just gotten out of a horrible relationship which was still in that back and forth stage, I hadn't given much thought to any man but my ex/not ex/ex/not ex/ex. I still had another two weeks before I could even move out of his house, so I definitely wasn't searching for a date, but on that patio, I was charmed. He was smart, good looking, and he had me cracking up. Before he left, he asked if he could take me out that weekend, and I was beside myself. The man had a way of asking questions that truly excited me, and it had been so long since I felt that sort of connection. The entire scene played out like something from a cheesy romantic comedy.

For the next few days, I kept him a secret, even when several of my girlfriends started asking if I'd met someone. Apparently, lighting up and smiling while texting somebody wasn't normal behavior for me. So I fibbed a little, and said it was just a guy from back home in Atlanta. Partly because I didn't want to jinx anything, and partly because I didn't want the headache of word spreading around in such a small town. Ricky felt like the personification of fate. A prince charming sent to me in order to save me from myself, and the pattern of sabotage I'd been engaging in for the previous couple years. To say I was elated would be an understatement, and not because I wanted to rush into some relationship. Far from it, actually. I was just so ready to get out there and start my life again, so ready to escape my awful ex boyfriend, and going out on an actual date with a person I was genuinely interested in seemed to be a wonderful start. However, as I have witnessed time and time again, I am not allowed to have nice things for long. I did begin to worry about what might ruin it, or what might happen if the people I lived with found out, but was able to set my fear aside and remain super stoked. When Saturday finally came, I was up early. The whole day was spent making sure I was relaxed and ready for the big night. I went to get my hair done, had a mani-pedi, my legs waxed (don't judge me, shaving is the worst), even bought new shoes. I was singing, feeling good, and I was ready to be as charming as humanly possible.

We were supposed to meet at 7pm for a drink, and then go out for dinner. It was 6:45 when I stepped out of my car, setting off some cosmic chain of events that would ensure the evening would be anything but smooth. It all started in--no--WITH a flash. I had parked on the street, about a block away from the cocktail spot. While walking to the meter, the wind caught the front of my adorable sundress, ripping it away from me, nearly up to my face. A homeless man a few yards away saw everything. It was embarrassing, sure, but it didn't shake me too much. I laughed and apologized. Then I went to actually pay the meter, which isn't the coin receptacle type in front of your individual parking spot. These meters downtown are set up differently, and on any given block, there are two to four places to pay for any and all parking spaces. You insert payment, receive your stub, and display that in your car. Not complicated in the least, but sometimes a pain when you're in a rush, having to walk back and forth from car to meter, to car, back past meter to wherever you're going, etc. Anyway, I stumbled a bit, tipping my purse and its entire contents all over the sidewalk, in front of the same human who just saw my underwear in broad daylight. I ended up crouched down, holding my dress, trying to recover my possessions, trying not to flash everyone ever, with a nice (but homeless) person helping to pick up all of my dropped belongings. Have you ever had someone holding your wallet, and looking inside of it while asking if you have any money on you? It was a first for me. It's hard enough for me to say no, or to limit what I give out to people who ask, and usually those people have no idea what the inside of my purse looks like. Imagine it. So much pressure. Eventually, everything important was gathered. I paid the meter, thanked the man, handed over my entire change purse, and went to put the ticket on my dash. There, I thought, you got all of your awkward out before you even went on the date. Good job. I had to again pass the meter, as well as the man, on my way to the bar.

"Can I get a dollar?"
"Seriously? I just gave you all my change. It's all parking quarters. That's like eight bucks, dude."
"You got paper, though."

I gave him a few paper dollars. I have no resolve.

I kept walking, certain the worst was behind me, but when I turned a corner, the heel of my brand new shoe got stuck in a grate. Shit. I tried to pull my foot free, to no avail. Shit, shit, shit. Taking my foot out of the shoe, I once again had to lower myself near the ground in my inappropriately flowing, short dress; this time, half barefoot. In what I can only describe as "of course it was" this thing was unbelievably stuck. In fact, it was taking so long to remove from its steel cage that several kind people stopped to try and help me. It was not a shining moment, and just as I was putting my newly scuffed shoe back on, I saw Ricky crossing the intersection. Yes, he had seen me yanking my footwear from the sewer. Yes, he did find it hilarious. However, when he hugged me hello and told me I looked cute, I felt much better. This is going to be a great evening, I thought. And for the shortest amount of time, it was. Up until we sat down for our drinks.

For reasons I didn't immediately understand, Ricky began to act supremely uneasy. He was fumbling over his words, he was pronouncing my name all wrong (I would correct him four or five times over the next few hours), and even seemed to be sweating. He was trying his best to hold a conversation, but kept apologizing for being so nervous. Usually, I'm pretty good for putting people at ease, so I did my best to help. I pretended not to notice how uncomfortable he was acting, and just continued on, cracking a few jokes, hoping that would pull him out of it. We finished our pre-dinner cocktails, and strolled over to the restaurant he'd chosen. On the way there, we were arm in arm, and he began to calm down. As somebody who struggles with panic disorder, seeing someone so anxious really tugs at me. He apologized again, and I admitted to him about my panic attacks. This seemed to help, and the walk was lovely.
Unfortunately, once we were seated at a table, we were faced with brand new challenges. He began to fidget with the silverware, dropping it on the floor. He needed two replacements by the time the appetizer came, and another two throughout the meal, because as soon as he would start getting comfortable enough to discuss anything, he'd gesticulate wildly, and something would go flying as a result. We were sharing our food, so sauce from the mussels we'd ordered would occasionally get splattered onto my arm, and he'd freak out apologizing. Then there was the issue of the tablecloth which needed swift adjusting. The motion knocked my full wine glass into my lap, soaking most of my body. He was horrified.
"Oh! Oh my God! I am so sorry. I have no idea what's even happening! I'm never like this!"

I kept telling him it was all right, and letting these accidents roll off even though I was starting to die a little inside. Throughout dinner, the energy would fluctuate without any notice whatsoever, making it hard for either one of us to really enjoy ourselves. It was impossible to navigate. No matter what we tried, one of us would end up saying or doing something to kill the discussion. The conversation was so strained, it was hardly a conversation at all. If this happened with somebody else, we both would have been rolling laughing at ourselves, and it might have gone really well for going so badly. I can recall one such date from high school, and that guy would end up being a great friend to me for the next twelve years. But not Ricky. While I found the entire thing funny, he was stone faced. I wanted him to joke with me, instead of assuming I was laughing at him, but it just wasn't working. By the time the waiter asked us if we wanted dessert, we looked at each other and sighed.
 
"At this point, it might make us feel better..." he suggested. We decided to split a piece of chocolate cake.

As we mourned aloud the date we were still on, we were finally connecting. For a few minutes, everything was flowing as it had when we met, and we were able to find humor in the time we were having. Wow, are we really about to turn this thing around? Is this going to be the greatest comeback of all time? But just as I began to feel hope, I also felt a familiar tickle in my throat. An itching. My stomach dropped; I began to silently panic. I realized Ricky was staring at me as if I had three heads.

"Are you okay? Your neck--Your chest! You're turning really red. Are you allergic to shell fish?"
"No? I don't know? It'd be new. This is so weird, I'm really only allergic to coffee..."

We both stared down at the empty plate between us, simultaneously drawing the same conclusion. It was a Wonder Twins moment for sure. He frantically flagged down the waiter, and asked about the cake. Turns out, there was an unadvertised layer of mocha creme, as well as a fair amount of coffee in the batter. And just for the record, for something mocha, that coffee flavor was imperceptible. My date even backed me up. No big deal, I told myself, you keep Benadryl in your purse. I explained how this sometimes happens, and how I always keep medicine on me, but as I rooted around in my bag, it was nowhere to be found. The purse dumping fiasco replayed in my head, and it occurred to me I was out of luck.
I ran the three blocks in new (scuffed) heels to the drugstore, where there was naturally a shortage of stock, and the only medicine left was the children's liquid. Bubblegum flavor, I think. I chugged a good portion of the bottle before suddenly remembering I had to go back and meet Ricky. The urgency of my situation had clouded my judgement, and I had blindly agreed to this as I was getting up from the table. He said he was going to pay, and then make his way to the store to make sure I was all right. I began to head his direction, but never ran into him along the way. Weird, maybe he left. I carried on, making it all the way back to find him still sitting at our table, with a worried look on his face.
When I walked in, the waiter broke the news that my date's card had been declined. All of his cards had been declined, and he rattled off a few possible reasons why. I didn't mind picking up the tab, though. It was just one more mishap, given how hard he had insisted on paying in the first place.

I believed we were finally done. We were walking out, about to go our separate ways, when just outside the restaurant, this tree-tall man took a sudden and terrifying tumble, failing to catch himself with anything but his face. I may have even yelped a bit, seeing him dive into the sidewalk like that. He jumped up to his feet quickly, with wide eyes and twenty "I'm fine's" to my twenty "are you sure's." It was clear he wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, despite starting to bleed. We briefly discussed who was parked where, along with which routes to take, since we'd roamed a few blocks from our original meeting point. As it turns out, I'd have to walk right by his car on the way to mine, so he asked to walk with me. It wasn't as pleasant as our previous stroll, as we tried to wrap our heads around everything that had occurred, and with me trying to beat the clock on my way to a diphenhydramine coma. We were nearly silent, afraid to open our mouths and say another stupid thing. He broke the quiet briefly.

"I met you in a coffee shop."
"Yes."
He frowned. "Unbelievable"
"Sorry?"
"I met you, and you were in a coffee shop. How would I know you were allergic to coffee?"
"You wouldn't."
"But why would you be there? You could die."
I shrugged. "I drink tea. Coffee shops usually have tea."
"Oh. Well, yeah..."

We were both staring far ahead. We were giving up. At least it's over now. I'll get some good sleep. And so, we just walked. Him, covered in sweat from conversational exhaustion, as well as his own blood from his battle with the concrete, and me completely covered in pinot noir from the tablecloth debacle. Also, did I mention that my dress was light grey? Because it was a very light grey, nearly white, and I never was able to salvage it. I had been drenched in dark red splotches. I'm sure we appeared insane together, and it definitely didn't help matters when Ricky suddenly started to yell, sprinting off to his car. Of course, I didn't know it was his car, or what he was yelling about. All I knew was that a bleeding, upset, sweaty man was running away from me while screaming, and from a distance I probably appeared to be covered in blood. Seemed like a true disaster. After the evening we'd had, it seemed about right.

"No. Fuck. No, no, no! HOLY SHIT NO! COME ON!"
"What's wrong?" I tried to tag along at first, but let him go on ahead, to whatever he was running toward.
He didn't answer me. He just kept screaming until he had to sit down on the sidewalk for a break. Putting his head in his hands, sighing loudly, he looked to be a nearly broken man. This night had already taken much out of him, and now his car had been booted. I offered to call him a cab, but then remembered the issue of payment. I certainly didn't have time to wait with him and pay. This was before Uber. I would have to take a cab myself if I tried. Benadryl and I don't get along.
"Come on," I said. "Let me drive you home." We trudged along, eventually getting in my car. Turn by turn, he fed me directions while apologizing profusely.

When we finally arrived at his house, I was running out of time. We hadn't talked much on the way. Although he had made a lot of, well, interesting statements during our evening together, none were more awkward than when we were sitting in his driveway. He grabbed my hand out of nowhere. He looked directly at me. His face was still bleeding a bit, and almost-tears had begun to form in the corners of his eyes. "I'm sorry everything was so terrible. I was so excited to get to know you." I nodded, but his energy began to feel severe, and I was getting uncomfortable. He went on. "So.. what I'm trying to say....what I really want to know is...well...We aren't going to work out, right?" I just sort of stared, because I wasn't sure where he was going with it, but I was still listening. I gave him another nod. "Right," he said, "we aren't going to work out. We had a terrible time, and I spilled wine on you, and I fucked up everything, and you had to pay and drive me...and I don't think I want to go out with you again. I mean, I don't want to go through this again. Do you want to come inside, though? Do you want to have a drink and stay over with me? I mean, you're already here. We can't make things much worse and if we're not going to see each other again..."

For a few seconds, all I could do was blink rapidly. What I wanted to say was "Oh, no thank you. I really need to get going." but what actually left my mouth was thirty seconds of a downright Julia Roberts-esque "BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA" followed by a breathless "No! Absolutely not! Please get out so I can leave!"

"It was worth a shot" he smiled.
"Was it?" I crinkled my face.
We half hugged, and I left.

Every time I think of that night, I try to derive some sort of meaning from it. I'm forever searching for a moral in all strange happenings, but honestly, I'm just glad I made it home before the drugs really kicked in. That could have been a DUI! Worse, that could have been an accident, and given everything else that happened in the hours before, I am shocked that it wasn't. I kick myself about it occasionally. I knew and know better, and I'm lucky to have awakened the next day, unscathed. So, I guess if I had to create a moral, or if I had to sum up some advice in a nice little bow, it might go something like this:

If you're allergic to coffee, make sure to ask for an ingredients list before consuming any chocolate cake while on a date, because if you don't, you could possibly end up having to drink a bottle of diphenhydramine while your date's car is being booted, leading you to unnecessarily risk your life and the lives of other people on the road, just to drive him home, where you'll end up turning down what one could only reasonably assume, given the theme of the evening, would be terrible sex. Also, don't do that driving thing if/when this happens to you. Just call a cab.

xoxo