Three Strikes, Yer Out
Anyone remember the trailer to the animated movie “Meet the Robinsons” with the t-rex? You know what I’m talking about: Big head, little arms! Or how about the Burger King commercial where the burger is so large that the man’s small hands can’t hold the sandwich in place? In this case, it was tiny, tiny hands, and, friends, I was that meaty burger.
Let me start by saying: I make a point to be very upfront about what I look like. I am not a skinny girl — I am all woman. I love who I am. I know that I am not every man’s fantasy, but, I do know that I’m also not a frail little stick who’ll snap upon bending. It’s my disclaimer of sorts as to prevent any surprises. Simply put: I’m 5’10″ and a self-proclaimed BBW. You’d think others would try to be as specific as possible, too, so that I’d feel equally as comfortable knowing who I’m meeting. But, most often, that’s not the case.
Over the phone, he told me he was “about five-eight and totally jacked.” Since I’m nice and had no evening plans, I willingly met him for dinner. He was 28 and actually about 5’5″…with shoes on. Slightly deterred by his stretching the truth a bit, dinner was actually nice. We had similar backgrounds in graphic arts and had so much to talk about — clients from hell, crazy exes, divorced parents. He’s cool, for sure. I ordered a drink, the server asked for both of our IDs. We swapped IDs just for laughs (because mine’s particularly entertaining). His birthday was in 1974. I’m notoriously bad at math, but he was actually 34!
Strike two.
He invited me back to his place. Again, why did I accept? Oh, that’s right, he lied twice and was really nice about it…
We watched a movie, BSed some more, and by the time the credits were scrolling, he had inched closer to me on his couch and said, “Well, I guess it’s time to make out now, okay?” He started kissing me. Not just pecking, but full-on tongued wet licks on my face. I froze. Then, before I knew what he was trying to do, he grabbed at my breasts with the smallest hands I have ever seen and squished them together with a beeping honk.
Strike three.
I stood up. He stood up, too, assuming that was my cue to head to his bedroom. He smiled and walked away from me toward a dark room down the hallway. I swiftly paced out the front door.
Months later, I was interviewed for a graphic design position in the same town. He was one of the interviewers.
I didn’t get the job.
Well, most of us.
