FIRST DATE FAILS

Friday evening, Michael and I ended up eating at a Thai place downtown. It was a new to us place and I was excited because they had som tum and sticky rice on the menu. I never see this on the menu at a Thai place. I mean, they usually have it listed as papaya salad because white midwesterners don’t know what som tum is, but they never have sticky rice. It was a busy night, not just for the restaurant but for the whole of downtown because of First Friday. This is the first one of the season where the weather has been nice enough to wander around outside and browse the art galleries and food trucks. The Thai place was packed and noisy. Big garage style windows were open so that the street sounds mingled with the restaurant sounds. The place smelled like walking into Sang Wan’s house.

Michael said that if this was a first date, it would be a terrible one. We both had ordered Thai beers. He had ordered chicken wings, both of us were eating our appetizers with our hands. Chris and I partially joked and partially seriously agreed that if you really wanted to get to know someone on a first date, then you should go out for BBQ ribs or spaghetti. This is what I thought of as Michael tore into a messy chicken wing, but that was not the reason why Michael had said that about first dates. He said it because at some point I’d have to explain why I was so comfortable and familiar with Thai food. I’d have to explain how I knew to take my sticky rice and use it to pinch up some som tum or how I knew the difference between hot and Thai hot. The difference between a tiny end of Thai chili versus half a Thai chili is vast.

What Michael failed to realize is that I didn’t need to be in a Thai restaurant to ruin a first date. Checking the widow box on the dating app was a guarantee to add a sourness to any and all of my first dates. I went on a number of bad, weird, awkward, at times slightly dangerous first dates. Men picked me out of the line up as a curiosity and I agreed out of my own curiosities. They all wanted to know the gruesome details of death. I was the car wreck they were slowing down traffic to gawk at and look for bodies. And I let them. I let them gawk and ask their stupid questions, not because I felt that I owed them this, but because I didn’t care. I was a sideshow queen, an oddity. At the end of one of these dates, the guy would walk away disappointed that I didn’t put out or even offer up a hand job. I’d leave disappointed in wasting my time.

My first date with Michael was only slightly awkward, but it lacked that circus sideshow feel. For the first time in a long time I felt relaxed in the presence of a man who was not (is not) Chris. There was only one brief moment when he looked at me with pity as he asked me about Chris. It was a brief, rip off a bandaid moment. I think Michael is the only one who could tolerate me and my constant Chris stories. I can’t pass the artichokes in the grocery store with out clutching my chest and coughing out ‘arti-choke’ like Chris used to and Michael just shakes his head and says “is Chris in the house today?” and I’ll throw my hands in the air and say “Woop, woop. Chris is in the house!” He tolerates and even finds it funny, though he’ll never fess up to the last part. He meant it when he told me that Chris never goes away.

I used to pick all the places to meet these men on first dates. Usually it was at Bella Napoli’s because it was close to my house and they have a great pizza special on Monday’s. Some times, we’d meet at a pub in the neighborhood. My feelings were that if I was going out, I might as well pick a place with good food. I ended up paying for my portion anyway, so I didn’t see that it mattered.

I never once chose a Thai place for meeting anyone.