May 8, 2009

The thing about dinner dates that I really hate is the eating part. Up until then, everything goes smoothly – you walk there together, you discuss your life plans, you compare menu choices. It’s once the food actually arrives that the trouble starts: conversation is marred and stilted by the inconvenience of chewing; eye contact suddenly becomes awkward – you don’t want to watch the other person eating, but you don’t want to look away either.

Then there are those really strange, cryptic looks you get from the other side of the table that make you wonder if this girl thinks you’re a freak or if you just have some sauce on your chin. So, hoping for the latter, you self-consciously dab your chin with your napkin and observe the results, like checking for blood on a shaving cut.

Really, I’d love nothing more than going out to a restaurant, ordering our meals, waiting for half an hour, and then having the chef come out and say, “Sorry folks, we’ve just run out of food.” I’d drop him a big tip to help ease his distress and leave thinking things went really well.



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