|To Clint, ridin' dirty. Photo by Wikimedia Commons.|
I had been texting Clint all week to cover up the fact that I had acted weird during the last date. To make me forget about all the red flags, I decided to concentrate on the good part instead. He was a gentleman, for one, and that was hard to find. He would open the car door for me, even in a taxi, and pull out my chair before I sat. That was both new to me and something that I forgot men could actually do. The fact that he actually had a fulltime job and didn't bother me with hyper-clingy or useless text messages for once was also a plus.
I chose to ignore that it didn't seem like he had any friends and that he was probably hiding the fact that he might be gay behind his surfboards and dates with me. No, that I would not think about. I chose to conveniently forget that when I showed a picture of Clint's short-short briefs/tighty-whities, my very homosexual friend said without doubt, "Oh, he's gay honey."
So next Friday (I was beginning to see that he liked to designate days for certain activities; Friday was our night), we went to go see the new Bond movie at ArcLight on Sunset. I met him at our usual cross street. walked over to the theater, and "chose" our seats at the kiosk. We had some time to kill so we went to the Veggie Grill that had just opened up beside it and got drinks. That was when I noticed he was wearing a paisley shirt. But it just wasn't paisley, it was extra paisley. Like the designer wanted to fit as much paisley as he could on one square sheet of fabric and the final product had somehow made it's way onto Clint's body. I started to remember all the red flags and it probably looked like that I was going to vomit, because he asked me if I was okay.
|Imagine this but 10 times more paisley. Photo by Wikimedia Commons.|
We finally made it into the theater, where we got completely confused as to where our seat was for about 20 minutes. I get the appeal behind picking your own seat, but you would think that they would make the seat numbers a bit more visible to the people. And then to my horror, Clint still was chatting away to me at a not-so-quiet volume and no intention of stopping. When I didn't respond, he asked again if I felt well. I made some comment along the lines of, "Yes I'm fine, I just don't talk during movies." That shut him up. And that was the moment that I knew I would never ever see him again. Talking during movies is one of my biggest pet peeves. Just don't do it.
I realized that this was the date where absolutely nothing went right, that I don't even think we had anything in common, and that I was definitely not in the slightest interested in him. I guess three dates is a good enough time to gauge your connection to any stranger. But here comes the best part:
After the movie, we walked back in the direction of my place when we saw a cat jump into this little crack in a deserted alleyway. To my surprise, Clint said that he would be right back and crept into the crack sideways. What was he doing? I didn't know he was a cat person. "If you don't come out I'm not going in after you!" I yelled from the street.
When he emerged, he wasn't carrying the cat. He was carrying a razor scooter. And worst, it was his. "I rode here on this from the Metro," he explained to me. I didn't know what else to do but laugh. And I couldn't stop. The whole situation was so strange and he was so strange that I had to question if I was just as strange myself. Not only was he a 29-year-old that rode around publicly on a contraption that I had not seen since I was in elementary school, but he stored it in back alleyways in Hollywood. I couldn't take it. He began to get a little freaked out that I was still laughing after five minutes, and offered to walk me to my apartment. I immediately stopped, afraid that he would make the deranged effort to sleep at my apartment, so I said "No, I'll walk you to the Metro. "
And I did. And we just hugged bye and I think we both knew that we really won't ever hear from each other again. And that was that. Now, even months later, I am wary of all men and automatically assume that they all wear incredibly short briefs or store razor scooters in random places. Which is neither fair nor true.
Which is why I have joined OkCupid. I'm using it as an excuse for blog content, but really I am genuinely curious. This should be interesting...
To read the entire installation of the LA Dating Horror Story trainwreck, read Part One and Two.