When I don't feel like working, which is pretty much 90% of my working day, I drop by a friend's office for an update on her dating life. I have to live vicariously through her, as I have no dating life of my own.
She's one of those terribly annoying women in their late forties who look about five years younger than I do in my mid thirties. She does very well with online dating, given that her demographic is men who are also in their late forties, coming off of their first or second divorces.
It also helps that she doesn't mind if they're fat or bald, citing something about personality and spirit over appearances. Admittedly, this is not an equation I'm familiar with.
The fact is, she's got so many men lined up to date her, she hasn't had to pay for a coffee, lunch or dinner in two weeks.
She was telling me about a lovely dinner date she had with a 49 year old high school teacher that she said even I might like, largely because he has a very dry sense of humour.
She knows perfectly well I'm much more likely to be pursuing one of his students, but she can't help trying to steer me in the direction of men who need to trim their ear hair more frequently than I shave my legs.
It amuses her.
She and the high school teacher agreed to share a plate of calamari, and all was going well until a piece of deep-fried squid became lodged in her throat. Aware that she was choking, she attempted to drink some water.
To her horror, her throat was so completely blocked the water just washed up again, spilling out down her shirt and over the table. By now she was panicking, flapping her arms, getting out of her seat, all the while trying desperately to cough or vomit.
Her date had rushed to her side, and was preparing to go full Heimlich when the deadly appetizer dislodged itself and plopped to the floor.
I was suitably horrified on her behalf, right up until she told me the only thought going through her head as she was being slowly murdered by a mollusk.
Instead of her life flashing before her eyes, all my friend could think of was that she was having a "Bambi Date."
My name is now so synonymous with dating mortification, that a woman can't simply come close to death, vomit on a dinner table and regurgitate seafood while her date attempts to save her life without thinking about me.
If I leave no greater legacy, I can be happy with that.
No comments:
Post a Comment