Not a Smoothie

In a fit of internet dating in college, I agreed to meet up with a fellow. We’d talked online and over the telephone, and seemed to have enough in common that getting together for smoothies was not out of line. His request to meet me in the produce section of a local market was odd, but I tried to chalk it up to just being quirky-cute. I arrived early to scope out and five minuets later, there was a guy hanging out by the starfruit. When I squinted and turned my head to the side, I was able to see how this individual was related to the photograph online, but it was a stretch. I made my approach and introduced myself. He was much more nervous than he was on the phone, and had made me a mix CD full of really romantic stuff. Eek.

The conversation over smoothies was nice, but I wasn’t really feeling it. I’d taken the bus to meet him, and he offered me a ride. At that point, I was still down for hanging out, so I accepted. We started to drive and he mentioned that he had gone by the liquor store to “stock up for when we went to his place that night.” I took that as my queue to tell him that he could just drop me off at my house. He agreed, and the rest of the drive went by in silence until we were about five blocks from my residence when he turns to me and breaks the silence, saying, “So… you’re Jewish?” I blinked at him, surely with an open mouth, and finally said, “What?” I had never told him what religion I was. He stammered, “Well, you know… uh, dark hair and, your, uh… big nose…. um. Uh. I guess you’re not?” I told him that the next corner was fine, hopped out of the car, and walked the remaining blocks back to my place.