I once had a blind date with the son of the president of the Men’s Club at our local synagogue. The big selling point of the match was that he was a med student. Alas, he fell short in the looks department. He was a mirror image of his father – short, fat and balding.
But there was no backing out with all the familial connections. So on that frigid winter day, I rode the subway into Manhattan with him for our date . We walked around for hours and finally visited the Guggenheim Museum. I was very hungry but he didn’t look like he was going to suggest we get food. In addition to my growling stomach, I started to find the conversation – and his character – increasingly unpleasant.
We finally left the museum. There was more walking but still no offer of grabbing a bite. In fact, he kept brushing off my food hints. Exasperated, I offered that we “go Dutch” on a meal but to no avail. He then decided that we should go see a show – and got $2 tickets, which put us in the last row. My stomach cried for sustenance throughout the show.
On the way home in the train, my date (the MD-in-training) decided to diagnose my condition and declared that there might be something wrong with my liver. He then grabbed my midsection. Utterly fed-up and unfed, I proceeded to kick his shins until I drew blood. I was obviously done with him but I worried a little that my father would be upset that I kicked his friend’s son. It turned out that my dad didn’t like the guy’s father either.