When Someone Says To You, “Garlic Kisses Tonight!”, It’s Time To Run.

I realize I have told quite a few dating stories on this blog. (I swear that was not my original intent, but good God, you people love them!) I’ll admit, I get asked out a lot, although, I may have referred to myself as Sahara, as in the desert, during a dry spell this summer. (Thank God for Dad Jeans Rob.) I never have really thought that I date any more than the next person, but then I talk to friends, male and female, throughout the AmTrak corridor, and on numerous occasions they say, “You date more than anyone I know.” “Really?” “Yeah, I’ve been asked out twice since college.” That was four years ago.

It hasn’t always been this way. You may think I’m one of those girls who always has a boyfriend. Ha, far from it. Quite the opposite. I never even went on AH date until I was 21 and out of college. How did this happen, you might ask. Well, two reasons.

1. I was fat (not phat). Yeah, seriously. Not “I’m now a size 2, but I used to be a size 4” fat, but more like fat girl fat. I assure you, no one wanted to date me growing up (wait, I think the correct terminology then was “go out with”). Trust me on this. I even went to prom on a blind date (in the worst possible way – my mother’s college roommate’s son – just a walking awkward moment right there).

2. My college years (those years where many people start to have maybe their first serious relationship) were spent at one of those small liberal arts colleges in the middle of nowhere (yes, one of those colleges where all of the alums feel superior to the entire human race for having attended this institution of higher learning) and no one, and I mean no one, dated. You were one of two extremes – married (ie together all four years) or just hooking up. Even if you were seriously together, it wasn’t because a guy called up a girl and took her on a proper date, and then another date, and then another before they had “the conversation” and announced to the world they are together. No, it was more like they hooked up once, and then again, and again, and then it just kind of was decided by the college at large, and I guess the two of them as well, that they were together. The End.

Because of this, I walked into the real world, newly svelte, and absolutely clueless about this whole dating thing. I knew how to be a guy’s best girl friend, heck, I was a pro at it. I practically spent my whole life as Rosie O’Donnell (okay, minus the whole lesbian thing and you know being crazy), but had no clue as to how to flirt, let alone deal with a guy who might actually be interested in me.

Sure enough, two weeks after I graduated from college, I was asked out on my very first date. Yes, at age 21 – I truly am the epitome of a late bloomer. Now as you read below, please keep the following things in mind: 1) I was 21 and stupid. 2) I was 21, naive (still thinking I was in utopia liberal arts college world), and, again, stupid. How I did not end up the next Chandra Levy (or as my Mom would say, sold into white slavery) I just don’t know. However, I lived. (See Mom, remember that, I lived, I’m just going to go ahead and preempt the lecturing phone call now.)

So, I moved to Washington the day after I graduated from college, a Sunday, and I started work at 9:00 Monday morning, the very next day. I was new to the city, barely unpacked in my sublet, and working about 100 hours a week (it was election season). A friend of mine called me as I was leaving work one Friday night (oh around 9:00pm) and asked me to come out for beers. Ok, why not be social? Plus, I had just graduated from college, so I still could get absolutely wasted and wake up the next morning fresh as a daisy, ready to conquer the day ahead (sigh, how I miss those days). Anyway, I cabbed over, ordered a beer, and sat down at the bar with my friend. Lo and behold, about five minutes later this rather attractive British guy came over and started talking to me.

Ok, if this happened to me today, my 26 year old city savvy self would be just plain rude – roll my eyes, cut off the small talk, probably just turn my back to him and keep talking to my friend. I’ve learned quickly to put my guard up, however, little naive me was like, “Great! A new friend!” We start talking, he’s British. “Oh, I studied abroad in London!” He owns a commercial bread company. “That’s so cool!” They serve his bread at the White House. “No Way!” Well, I must have charmed him quite a bit, probably because I was the only female to fall for his British bread baking schtick hook, line, and sinker. I ended up getting drunk, making out (classy!), and asked out to dinner for the following evening.

A date? Really? I remember my friend Becca saying to me, “Okay, you’ve lived in this town two weeks. You work all the time. You know no one. And you already have a date. I’ve lived here five years, I don’t even have a date, but you do.” Yeah, I somehow managed to swing it, but I was absolutely clueless as to what to wear, do, say, or act. Are we going to go get burgers, split a milkshake with two straws, and then drive up to Make Out Point? Do I get a corsage? Do we need to take a prom picture? I just don’t know.

So he picks me up for a late dinner at 9:00 that night. Yes, I rode in a car with him. Again, I lived. I am ridiculously nervous, and as we’re driving over he starts telling me about his day. Oh, he ran into his old friend today who managed Wesley Clark’s race. Oh, his Auntie wrote Reading Lolita in Tehran. Now 26 year old me would just roll my eyes and try not to throw up in my mouth if I heard this. I would know that he is participating in the classic Washington bloodsport that is known as “name dropping.” However, little 21 year old me takes him at his word, sits in awe, and just gets more nervous.

We pull up to the restaurant (which by the way, is one of the nicest restaurants in DC – I tell people this story, and they’re like, “Wait, you ate there on a first date?” The only other time I went after this was a New Years Eve dinner with my then boyfriend.). He then proceeds to…start kissing me. Yep, full on make out. Sober. And we hadn’t even walked in the restaurant. Okay, now most women would probably run away and call 911, but stupid me is thinking, “Well, I guess this what you do on dates. I mean, we already made out once before.” Lord.

Okay, so I know you’re thinking right now, what a pervert, but this is when it just gets downright creepy. We get out of the car, and he…wait for it…holds my hand walking into the restaurant. Um what? I’ve dated boys for a lot longer than 15 minutes (literally, the date had been that long so far), and we never hand held. (Funny how holding hands is just ten times creepier than making out.) Again, stupid me just keeps thinking, “Oh, okay, well I guess this is what you do. A boy asks a girl out and then they hold hands throughout the date. Got it.”

Finally, we’re at our table, we’re ordering drinks. Now the confident, self-assured me of today would, no doubt, order a vodka soda (probably extra strong with this guy), however, I thought I would look classy if I ordered “white wine” so I did. Really, because Sauvingnon Blanc gets you drunk oh so fast. (Also, my alcohol repertoire at this point was beer and beer.) And you know, when you’re nervous and fidgeting, it’s best to drink out of a wine glass. Always a good idea. I think I ordered six that night.

Now it’s time for the conversation. He starts asking more about me, where I’m from, what I do. Now, you have to understand something here. I am a nice girl, I come from a nice family, and I easily check all the nice girl boxes. I attended excellent schools, danced awkwardly in 8th grade Cotillion, went to camp in the summer, studied abroad in college, did the whole deb ball thing (twice), and now work in Washington, however, I think this guy thought I was some girl straight off the bus (or horse and buggy) from Appalachia, as if my parents were from Deliverence or something. He just didn’t get it. Any of it. He was Iranian, grew up in London, and his whole family were now developers in Dubai. Yes, Dubai. I felt as if he kept making sure I understood how rich he was – flashing his Rolex, telling me some stupid story about wiring his brothers $25k in Dubai (I’m sure my mother right now is claiming it was part of a money laundering scheme.) Yeah, I don’t think I could have brought this guy back home for my southern family Christmas party without everyone in my town thinking he was a terrorist (I realize this is extremely offensive, but it’s just true. This is where I live.) I brought home a California Jew one year, and that was just plain exotic. A British Iranian possible money launderer with family in Dubai. Ok, now that’s just over the top.

So the food comes, including some tasting appetizer which was some sort of chilled soup, but came in sort of a refined shot glass. “Compliments of the chef.” We both taste it, and the guy looks at me and goes, “Garlic kisses tonight!” Aaaaahhhh! I’m scared for my life just writing this now! As we started eating, we keep making conversation, and he asks, “So wait, how long has it been since you graduated from college?” “Oh, um two weeks.” “Oh, I thought it had been a lot longer than that.” Nope. Sure makes you feel a little like a pedophile, doesn’t it?

Ok, so now the meal is over and we’re waiting on our check. Did he offer me a breath mint? Oh no, he reaches for my hand across the table. Yes, I had to sit there, awkwardly, and hold his hand across the table. A complete stranger’s hand. I don’t think I could hold my own husband’s hand across the table in a restaurant, much less this guy’s. “So how long ago was your last serious relationship?” Uh what? Okay, if this happened to me today, a guy asking me this question on the first date, I would freaking do a Tina Turner/Angela Basset, What’s Love Got To Do With It sprint out of the restaurant, away from my abusive husband, Ike Turner (or this freakshow), and into oncoming traffic if it meant sparing me from any more time and possible molestation from this man. However, I thought this was a completely normal, not invasive at all, conversation to have. “Well, uh, never.” “Wait, what?” “Yeah, I’ve never dated anyone.” “Anyone?” “Um, no, not anyone.” What was I going to do, tell this guy I just lost 60 pounds? (70 now, bitches) He looked at me like I had three heads. Yep, I’m just that young.

As he was driving me home, he started telling me some story about his “baby cousin.” “Yes, my baby cousin. Oh wait, I guess she’s your age.” Yep, I’m jail bait. I’m your baby cousin’s age. Would you want your baby cousin to go out with some guy like you? I finally show some sort of gumption. “So, how old are you, by the way?” “I’m 34.” As I write this, I bet he was 40, but we’ll just go with 34. I was 21. 13 years age difference, so inappropriate, just down right wrong. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not that much, I mean if I was 60 and he was 73, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I was 21 and fresh off the boat. That’s just wrong.

I said good night and decided that was the end of any possible relationship or social interaction. The next day, he called me, and I, of course, did not pick up. He left me a message that was something like, “Hello, my darling. I was just calling to give you a sweet kiss goodnight and see how you were doing this evening. Miss you. Call me.” Swear to God. Yeah, I was creeped out, but I didn’t get just how peculiar this was, until I told an older male co-worker and he replied, “Okay, that’s something you say to someone you’ve been dating a really long time.” Oh really? Got it. I didn’t return the call, and I, thankfully, never heard from him again.

So yes, that is my first date story. No, his mom didn’t drive us to the movies, we didn’t have an awkward kiss good night on my front stoop (but hey, we did hold hands and make out in the car before dinner – can’t beat that!). Instead, I got a fantastic story that I will be retelling for the rest of my life, as well as pretty much letting myself hit rock bottom straight out of the twenty something gates. Every guy I date should write the British bread baker a thank you note, because really, no matter how bad a date may be, it will never be that bad. It’s just not possible. Although, this is me we’re talking about, so I just might be able to top it. You never can tell.