Plenty of Fish
It was the early nineties and six days into an apocalyptic break-up trauma, I had decided it would be good for me to date new people. I went on a date with a guy who had a five-year plan. He was pre-med at Stanford and there was a dream date quality about him. He took me to the pier for a nice stroll, a stellar choice had it not been the middle of winter. I didn’t bring a parka, nor did he offer me his coat. We reached the end of the pier where there was a fragrance of dead, scaled fishes. Although the stench was getting to me, I thought to myself, “Maybe this is what a dream date is suppose to be like?” Next he wanted to “wine and dine me at a really nice restaurant,” which were his precise words. My ex didn’t know that wine and dine could be used in the same sentence, so when he said it, I was grateful.
Yet, it was clear that the dream date Gods frowned upon me once we pulled in to the Denny’s parking lot. Inside bustled with screaming children, night shift workers and rowdy college kids. Oddly enough we were seated right away. Our table was tucked away in a dark corner, far from normal dining people. The busboy never came with waters. My date dominated the conversation; I spoke once to the waitress with a desperate plea for a side of ranch dressing. There was a fishy odor that had found a home in my cashmere sweater. I needed exit strategies. The bathroom window was an option, or even making a run for it and jumping into a cab or hitchhiking, I didn’t care.
So, I feigned a stomachache, blamed it on the ranch dressing and suggested he take me home. Easily enough he paid the check, which was a mere $12.95. My dream plan of escape was working, until he pulled into a parking lot of a 24-hour laundromat and a video rental store. I reminded him of my epidemic, but he reassured me that this would only take 10 minutes and it was on the way. After 20 minutes in the car, I couldn’t wait any longer so I went inside. The cashier at the counter immediately stared at me. As he was paying, I caught glance of one of the rentals, “All in the Sex Family” marked with triple XXX. I envisioned the subject header of tomorrow morning’s mass email to my single girlfriends: “He pit-stopped to pick up porn.”
I shaved my legs for this? The car pulled up to my house and with a foot already out the door, he grabbed my hand and asked, “Want to do this again next week?” His hand cupped mine, underneath were his porn rentals.
“I might throw up.” I said.
I couldn’t risk his lean-over for a goodnight kiss, so I bolted. Years later, I laugh at myself now and have stayed away from guys with a five-year plan.
either way OP, send me a copy when you decide to turn this into a book, I loved reading it!
