The Great Flood, Volume II Monday, April 13, 2009

I know you are going to say I told you so, but let me try to explain myself first…
I usually tried to steer clear of the bars labeled “college hangouts”, but one night found myself there with a group of girlfriends because of their drink specials.  Shocking, I know.  In my defense, it hadn’t been that long since I had graduated college, and I was working for a non-profit at the time.
Upon arrival, we scouted out what you would call a prime table in a place like this—equidistant from the dance floor, bar and bathroom, and tried to blend in. 
A few hours and our fair share of L.I.T’s later, the dancing, loud talking, and picture taking (all common among all intoxicated groups of girls) ensued.  Yes, it seemed this was going to be one of those nights. 
Sure we were being so obnoxious that no guy would be interested in approaching us out of sheer annoyance, I was shocked when a male approached our table.  It took me a few minutes, but I soon realized he knew one of the girls we were with.    
After making introductions around the table, he walked over to me, and without wasting any time, informed me that his friend, who was standing less than 5 feet away from our table, wanted to know if it was okay if he came over and talked to me.
I reluctantly agreed, but had my doubts at first—I mean, who has their friend come over and ask if it is okay to come talk to you?  It was almost as bad as a guy asking if he could kiss you…seriously dude…just buck up and do it.  I chalked it up to some kind of whacked out manners, and tried my best to take it as a compliment.  Maybe there were a few southern gentlemen out west that weren’t cowboys after all.
After his friend gave him the okay to talk to me, the two of them came back to our table to join the group.  He sat across from me, and for the next hour, we tried to scream over the loud rap music that echoed throughout the bar. 
To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t remember much of what we talked about, mostly because I couldn’t hear a word he said.  But I must have been doing a good job of acting interested, because he asked me for my number at the end of the night.  I had no problem with it—after all, from what I remembered he was pretty cute. 

(Photo from 'Spikenzie' via Flickr)

A few days later he texted me.  His delivery was solid—he asked if I wanted to have a conversation that didn’t involve screaming at each other.  Sure, I still didn’t remember his name, but he was witty…and I liked that.
I agreed, and that Thursday after work I met him at a local restaurant downtown.  I was fashionably late (of course) but when I wasn’t there at two minutes after we agreed to meet, I received a phone call from him frantically asking where I was. Looking back I consider this red flag #1.
As I approached the restaurant, I noticed what looked like a 17-year-old pacing anxiously outside the entrance.  It wasn’t until after the double take that I realized this was my date for the evening.  Definitely not how I remembered him…
Okay, so he looked like he was in high school and seemed to have serious separation anxiety…things could only go up from here, right?  Or so I thought. 
He greeted me with an awkward side hug and we walked into the restaurant.  It was crowded, so we made our way to the bar.  We sat down, and as soon as we did, I had the overwhelming urge to order a round of tequila, but I resisted.  He ordered a beer (thank God) and I quickly placed my order behind him.  Vodka tonic.  Double. 
It was awkwardly silent for a few seconds after placing our drink orders, so in an effort to save the day, I swooped in with the normal, politically correct first date questions.  Our drinks arrived, and Jeremy (yes, I finally figured out his name) began to comment on the price of alcoholic beverages around the area.  It seemed like a decent topic.  I was always down for a good happy hour, and at least now I knew he was 21 (or had a good fake ID anyway).

(Photo from 'Spikenzie' via Flickr)

But the conversation turned uncomfortable yet again when he announced he would rather drink at home alone instead of go out with his friends.  Let’s just go ahead and call this red flag #2. 
When it came time to order, I kept it casual and decided on a grilled cheese sandwich and the soup of the day—a creamy squash and pesto (this may seem like too much information right now, but trust me, it’s relevance will soon reveal itself).  He ordered a sandwich and soup too, but decided on the minestrone. 
Our food finally arrived and I tried to continue the conversation in between bites.  I politely asked him how his food was and after expressing his satisfaction, he dove right into the topic of the caloric intake on each of our plates.  Uh…yeah…red flag #3. 

(Photo from 'Spikenzie' via Flickr)

He informed me that when he went out to restaurants, he tried to stay away from “creamy soups” on the menu because he just couldn’t bear to think about the amount of calories they added to his meal.  And it didn’t stop there—oh no—he then made his way to the fat content of the havarti dripping out of the side of my grilled cheese sandwich.  At this rate, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he suggested I jog home.
The crazy part was, it wasn’t like this guy was a serious meat head who only consumed power bars and protein shakes, or freaking Lance Armstrong for that matter.  Seriously…who was this guy and why was he dissecting my dinner? 
When the bill came I as always, offered to split, but he quickly declined.  After our dinner conversation, I was shocked he would pay for such a high-calorie, alcohol and company filled meal. 
The sad part is I really think he thought the whole thing was going well until we left the restaurant.  He was raring and ready for date destination number two, where to I will never know, but I quickly departed, without a half-hug or even a fist bump. 
I have since stopped giving my number out after consumption of three or more alcoholic beverages.  Well, most of the time anyway…

The Great Flood, Volume I Saturday, May 31, 2008

There once was a period of great drought, but soon— it happened.  Like clowns spilling out of a circus car, there they were. 
Exhibit #1:  Jack, the running coach
Jack was one of my running coaches during my marathon training (please see below for dramatic recounts).  He was nice, maybe even a little bit cute.  In fact, I never thought of him as anything but Coach Jack, until that faithful day in March. 

(Photo from 'Thomas Hawk' via Flickr)

It was an email I will never forget, but couldn’t delete fast enough—yes, you read correctly, an EMAIL.  We finished training for our race in January, but to selfishly keep up my muscle tone, I had kept in touch with the running group which Jack led. 
In the email he asked if he could take me out for dinner.  At first, I thought nothing of it—he just wants to catch up, I thought.  I hadn’t been to the running group in awhile due to my busy schedule at work, so he probably just wanted to see how life post-race was going.  WRONG. 
I agreed, still thinking nothing of it.  Then came the next email…dun dun dun…he wanted to pick me up.  Uh oh.  This was a date. 
I was going on a date with my running coach, who had seen me at my worst.  He’d heard me whine, seen me sweaty and without makeup (gross), and listened to me cry and complain for five months straight.  I guess I just never saw it coming—I thought of Jack as more of a father figure.  A dad who just put up with all the crazy things I did and said.  The more I thought about it, the more it freaked me out. 
As the weekend grew closer, I grew more anxious.  But my friends calmed me down reminding me that it was just a date—I didn’t have to marry him.  So, I formulated a plan, mapped it all out and got ready for my big night. 

THE PLAN: 
1. Give the ‘friend’ vibe
2. Offer no physical contact (not even a handshake or a ‘half hug’; we don’t want to send off the wrong message here)
3. Avoid eye contact outside of conversation
4. Go dutch
5. Keep it short and sweet
6. Stay in control (for the most part, this applies to conversation topics, but could also refer to the amount of alcohol consumed)
7. And finally and most importantly, talk about running AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE! 

The day came, and I ended up meeting him at the restaurant—I chickened out at the last minute and told him my Godmother had to have an emergency root canal and she needed me to watch her kids, so it would be more convenient to just meet him there.  It wasn’t a complete lie—it was sort of the truth.  She’d had an emergency root canal, just not that day.  And besides, according to rule #6, I needed to stay in control.    
I walked into the restaurant and found him waiting for me near the hostess stand.  Sticking to the plan, I greeted him with a friendly smile and hello.  He did the same, and informed me that there was a 20 minute wait in the restaurant, but no wait at the bar.  In an attempt to avoid prolonged conversation and some forced awkwardness, I suggested the bar.
As soon as we were seated, I realized I had made a big mistake.  The bar was not just a bar.  It was a sushi bar.  Not only was I going to be on an awkward date, it was going to be over raw food, which at this point, I did not know if I could stomach. 

(Photo from 'Swerz' via Flickr)

I had tried sushi before, and would be willing to try it again someday, just not with Jack.  If I am going to put myself through the uncomfortable texture of raw fish sliding down my esophagus, I at least wanted to have it be in the company of someone I was actually interested in.  I ordered a salad and prayed the sight of his food wouldn’t bring me to vomiting. 
Following rule #7, I talked about running as much as possible.  Lucky for me this was one passion we had in common, so it wasn’t too tough.  We then moved on to work and social scenes, but somewhere in between the two something terrible happened.  Jack got serious.
He began telling me about his childhood and his family, going into non-first date detail.  Abort mission!
When he was done eating his smelly, caterpillar-looking sushi, the check came.  I asked if we could split the bill, but he insisted on paying.  Even though I broke rule #4, I didn’t feel too bad about it.   I felt like I did deserve some sort of compensation for having to watch him eat his fishy monstrosity.    
Shortly after, we went our separate ways.  The plan went off without a hitch—and though it was awkward at times, it could have been way worse.  I arrived at my house at 8:01pm, just 61 minutes after I had left. 
I am pretty sure Jack got the message.  I have not heard from him again, and have since found a new running group. 
Stay tuned, The Great Flood, Volume II is COMING SOON!