Long ago, back in the day when I was
still participating in the grueling world of dating, my very dear friend was rushed to the hospital. I headed to the
hospital the minute I received the call. At one point, when a doctor came in to check on her, I decided to leave her room to give her some privacy.
That was my first
mistake.
I should have insisted on staying
through whatever it was that prompted me to leave! But no … I was polite and ushered myself to
the waiting area. It was late evening, and
the waiting room was quiet and empty.
Except for a hospital employee dressed in scrubs. I remember thinking that he was cute … and
had nice hair. And, I have to admit I
wasn’t terribly disappointed when he started chatting with me … then flirting …
and eventually asked me out.
I agreed to the invitation. That was my second mistake.
From what I had seen and
heard that evening at the hospital, I pegged him to be the rugged, four-wheel
drive driving, sporty type of guy.
So, imagine my surprise when,
upon walking out to his car on our infamous first (and last) date night, I saw
a large, dull-butterscotch-colored, 4-door, boat-like sedan … plastered with
political bumper stickers.
P-L-A-S-T-E-R-E-D!
As my eyes quickly scanned
the myriad of opinions shared via the bumper stickers, everything in me wanted
to turn and run! I decided to give him a
chance. First impressions can be so
misleading (by the way … they can also be right!).
Mistake #3 …
giving him a chance.
As we drove to the
restaurant, talk radio twittering away in the background, he regaled me with
all the reasons music radio was bad-bad-bad, along with all the brain-related
benefits of talk radio. A topic that bored
my early twenty-something self to tears.
I began creating escape plans
in my head. He continued to chatter about talk radio, as I attempted to figure
out the logistics of opening the car door and performing some spectacular maneuver that
would effectively and safely fling me from the car, allowing me to land
safely on the freeway and quickly escape from being run over by the hundreds of
other 60-mile-per-hour-moving cars on the road.
After all, I reasoned, I’d landed safely after parachuting out of a
plane. How hard could it be to apply the
emergency-landing drop and roll movement I’d been taught to an escape from a
moving car?!
I stayed in
the car.
We arrived at Red Robin,
ordered, and attempted to make conversation.
As the food on our plates dwindled, he decided it would be a good idea
to order dessert. Red Robin had one of
my favorite desserts - apple crisp - so, I folded and ordered along with
him.
That was when he looked at
me, then my plate, then up at me again, and asked, “Aren’t you going to make
your plate happy?”
“Hmmmm?” I questioned, not
certain I’d heard him correctly.
“If you want dessert, you need
to eat all the food on your plate. You
need to make your plate a Happy Plate,” he matter-of-factly explained.
“You know … I’m getting a
little bit full. I think I’ll take the
rest to-go,” I replied carefully, not wanted to ruffle any last vestiges of his
sanity. After all … I still needed to
get home safely.
Mistake # …. well, I’ve lost
count … anyway, that would be letting him drive me to the date location.
Dessert arrived, thank
goodness, and I dove into my haven of apple crisp. But, once again, I quickly got full and had
to stop eating before finishing. I hoped
and prayed that he wouldn’t notice my very unhappy plate. Actually, it was a bowl. With deep sides. So, I thought there might be a chance that he
wouldn’t see the remnants of apple crisp still sitting inside.
Of course, he did. But, this time, he went a step further. After confirming that I was not, in fact,
going to be personally making my bowl happy, he took the bowl, spooned what he
could of the remaining crisp, and then LICKED the bowl clean.
At that point, I remember my
shoulders slumping a bit, as I looked around to see if anyone I knew was in the
restaurant and watching this whole pitiful story play itself out. Then I turned to my date, and watched him
blissfully finish licking the bowl. “There,” he proudly stated, “now it’s happy!”
Unlike me … who was quite the
opposite of happy, and just wanted to get home.
But, no. As luck would have it, a Halloween store had
opened up in the same complex as Red Robin.
Not a nice home décor-type Halloween store, with stylish pumpkins and
cute decorative ghosts. But, the freaky Halloween
store, with gory masks and fake blood and cackling voices and grotesque
creatures hanging from the walls and ceiling … and that stale, funky smell of
I-don’t-know-what.
He was ecstatic over the
discovery of this store. Me … not so
much. Surprise, surprise. But, being a nice person and a tad concerned
about his mental state, I went along with it … walking with him through the
store and feigning amusement and delight over the Goth and gore.
Thankfully, the evening ended
with me safely arriving back home, sharing a kind thank-you and goodbye, then
quickly high-tailing it to my apartment where I promptly locked the door and
ran to the window, peeking through the blinds to ensure his car had driven
away.
My worst date ever. But, definitely a memorable and humorous one.
So, thank you, Happy Plate
Guy – wherever you are … and, please, stay where you are – for giving me such
an unusual, unique, implausible, and – in hindsight – amusing experience. Seriously, though ... stay.where.you.are.
The first time I met Sam, I was in the midst of my strength training routine. As I strained and sweated to lift the weights just a few more times, he came around the corner and – extending an old-fashioned doctor’s bag toward me – said brightly, “Would you like a piece of candy?”
