Not in Fashion
Last year I experimented with online dating and I arranged to meet for drinks at an upscale venue with a guy whose profile said that he was six feet tall and worked in fashion. He was older than me, but looked youthful in his picture so I didn’t mind. I arrived at the bar and there he was. His picture dated back by at least five years, to when he still had hair. Also, I am five foot five and towered over him in my three inch heels.
He proceeded to snap his fingers at the waiter and order the house white. He took a gulp and then declared it awful and then said, “Oh well, we’ll just drink it.” In the following half-hour, he proceeded to tell me that all bankers are evil (I am a banker) and that “I work in fashion” means “I procure sweatshops for high street retailers.” Meanwhile he was wearing a shirt last in seen on The Hoff and a belt buckle the size of a saucer. He also declared that little children in Burma are happy to go to work in factories because that way they can hang out with their mommies and that otherwise they’d all be heroin addicts.
When he suggested we go for dinner I was horrified. To be graceful I suggested we have some tapas there. He ate the olives with chopsticks, which I found perplexing. Finally, the bill arrived and he asked me for half of it. As we leave, he picks the receipt up and says, “I’ll take this, I can expense it!” Needless to say, I let him make a profit out of the date. As we were walking out, the kind waiter tells me he’s very sorry for me for the awful date and that I should go back inside for a glass of champagne. I took him up on the offer as soon as I’d said goodbye to the awful man outside.
