Mr. Wizard, Get Me Outta Here

There are probably hundreds of thousands of people who have met the loves of their lives over the internet.

I am not a member of that group.

Now there are pluses and minuses to this. Yes, I'll be sitting home on Valentine's Day again this year. But I have lots of dating blog material! I'll leave it to you to decide what's a plus and what's a minus.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not God's-Dating-Gift-to-Men either. I'm sure lots of men could write essays about their "interesting" experiences with me.

Like the guy I went hiking with. The one who gave me the look of horror when I explained how I liked to spit off every bridge I crossed on a trail. Hey, what's horrifying to one man is endearing to another.

It's this OTHER man I've yet to meet.

So I decided to go out with a man from online who seemed to be a fairly interesting fellow. Successful. Professional. Bright. Articulate. Funny. Attractive.

We met at a restaurant. I walked in and mentioned to the hostess I was meeting someone. She directed me to a man sitting at the bar. I thought.... noooooo, that's not the guy.

But, alas, there were no other guys.

I walked slowly toward the Guy At The Bar, and I had my usual aura indicating "You are now entering a Salvador Dali painting. Please watch your step." I said his name out loud with a questioning inflection at the end.

Yes. This is... The Date.

But wait! His profile said he was 5'8. I'm 5'6, and I'm taller than The Date.

But wait! His picture had shown him with a full head of beautiful salt and pepper hair. The Date has mousy brown hair and a MAJOR comb-over, which as we all know does nothing to hide what it is designed to hide.

Now... I have nothing against bald heads. In fact, bald heads are rather sexy. Comb-overs, by their very definition, are not sexy.

And sending out a picture with a beautiful full head of hair, then showing up with only three very long strands desperately struggling for survival? Not cool, no matter which way you comb it over.

Oh well. Deep breath. I can get through this.

Conversation ensued. During the course of the initial conversation time, The Date...

...cursed about every third sentence.
...repeatedly called his ex-girlfriend of three years a bitch.
...touched me on the leg an average of once every forty-five seconds.

We went on a tour of the area, and at some point my cell phone ceased functioning. I pushed aside the idea of a dead cell phone being part of a potential Twilight Zone of the New Millennium episode.

Since I had to make a call back to check on my son, The Date suggested I go to his house nearby to use the phone, meet his son, and see where he lives.

So we arrive at his house, and I immediately call to check on my son and to give my friend The Date's address and phone number. Someone needed to know where to send the police.

I meet his son. See his artwork. See his designer kitchen. Meet his cat. I then went to the bathroom and did what any reasonable woman would do at this point.

I searched his medicine cabinet.

Bottle upon bottle upon bottle of anxiety medication. Xanax, Valium... more benzodiazepenes than you could groggily shake a stick at.

Now... I have nothing against a good benzodiazepene here and there. But eight bottles are a bit.... uhm... much.

Mr. Wizard, get me outta here.

So I let him know I needed to get back to my son, and off we go. As we drive I find myself learning all about his riding crop that his previous "ladyfriend" had given him.

Me: Riding crop? Do you own a horse?

The Date: Grin... "No."

Ohhhh kay.

Now.... I have nothing against a spanking here and there, but from a man with a major comb-over who calls his ex-girlfriend a bitch and who has eight to ten bottles of diazepam, lorazepam, and all the other -pams in his medicine cabinet? I think not.

So fifteen months later this guy and I break up.

Okay, I'm kidding about that last one.

I do wonder what happened to that man in the dating world. Because what is horrifying to one woman is, I'm sure, endearing to another.