Walking Dumpster Fire

I am waiting for my date at a bar in Minneapolis. It’s happy hour, and I am early, per usual. I hate walking into the first date late and watching the guy I am meeting size me up. I always want to ask them, better or worse than expected? Instead, I look at the menu, decide what I will order, grab a beer and wait.

I am not excited about this particular date. Not because he doesn’t seem nice or cute; I believe he is both, although I am making this assumption based on pictures and text messages. The lack of excitement exists because there hasn’t been that witty banter in our texts (which I love) or the “can’t wait feeling” to meet someone. This was just a casual date that I almost called off because I was 40 minutes away from home, and it was cold and snowing. But I decided to make the best of it.

He walks through the door wearing the green sweater and long black jacket he wore in his first profile pic on Bumble. I look him up and down (you bet your sweet ass I am sizing him up, that’s why I arrive early). Nothing is surprising here, nothing I didn’t expect. We smile at each other and say hello. He comments on how nice I look. I say thank you, but I immediately notice he is nervous. And I wonder if I have any nerves left or if dating in my mid-thirties permanently drained me of them. I say a silent fuck to myself and sip my beer.

We have pleasant conversations. (Small rant about pleasant conversations: they are the goddamn worst. I would rather have someone walk in on a first date and call me a cunt in front of the entire bar and have the place applaud, cheer, and shake their heads in agreement than have another pleasant conversation.) We discuss the usual: where we grew up, what we like to do in the winter, and how old our kids are. We both love wine and are in the industry, which is the majority of our conversation. His wine knowledge surpasses mine, and I find that intriguing. Still, I already know a second date is not in our future.

We close our tab, and he asks if I want to go to an adult arcade bar across the street. I say yes, I like gaming, and you never know; maybe a spark could evolve? On our way to the arcade, he tries to put his arm around me, and at the same time, I step out of the way to avoid a bush, causing a minor collision. He comments, “Oh, I was going to put my arm around you,” and I say, “Oh. OK.” while thinking, “Dear Lord, this is so awkward! KILL ME NOW!”

Once inside the arcade bar, he seems more relaxed, which puts me at ease. We play pinball, talk about cooking, and various shows we stream. We check out Donkey Kong and shoot some hoops. I don’t let my ultra-competitive self come out, as I know that can get ugly real quick. Then we check out Ms. Pac-Man. If you don’t remember Ms. Pac-man, it is just like Pac-man. For one exception: at the end of each game, the screen goes black, then depicts Ms. Pac-man chasing after Mr. Pac-man and vice versa. Then they kiss. I have my hand on the joystick, and after viewing this, my date says, “I didn’t know this was a romantic game,” and proceeds to put his hand on mine. I chuckle and assume he is making a joke, but my brain is gagging on the amount of fucking cheese that was just served up.

He plays one round, and then it’s my turn again. A few minutes later, Ms. Pac-man is again canoodling with her beau. My date makes another comment about the duo. I turn to him, laugh, and quickly turn away to start the next level before noticing he was leaning in to kiss me. His botched kiss lands on my cheek, and it’s now wet. Sad and wet. The awkwardness is deafening. I almost turn and walk out into the street so a random car can run me over. I have never been so pissed at a legless character in my entire life. I wanted to punch Ms. Pac-Man in the ovaries and have the ghosts devour her while Mr. Pac-Man watches in horror.

And dudes, this is where I see the confusion. At some point at the end of the date, unless it’s horrific, there is the opportunity for a kiss. It can be bad, it can be nice, it can be WOW! I didn’t know this was coming; how exciting! But, the opportunity is there every time, waiting at the end of the date. Why do guys want to rush it? It’s like going out for a lovely dinner and instantly asking for the dessert menu. Bro, we will get there. Chill.

And did my date really think it would be a good idea for our first kiss to be in an arcade next to a group of 22-year-olds prompted by a horny Ms. Pac-man? Was he on some timer? Did his man brain turn robotic? Must kiss on date in the first 90 min, or balls will explode.

Thankfully, we were out of beer and game tokens. He asked if I wanted more, and I said no, I had to drive back home and, therefore, should stop drinking. He asked if I wanted to go back to his place; he had an outstanding sparkling wine he wanted me to try. I said no. I smiled, though, not because he asked but because I clearly saw we were on two different dates. He saw this as going well, and I saw this as get me out of here as fast as possible before all the awkwardness eats us whole.

He walked me back to my car. We stood facing each other; this is the part of the date where you ask for the dessert menu, so I kissed him. It was surprisingly nice. We said we would do it again, which I knew to be false. I laughed to myself as I drove back home and thought, if he hadn’t tried so hard to get his chub on during the entire date, I would probably be enjoying his sparkling wine right now.