Too Good to be True...

Last December, I met a guy…and he was easily the hottest guy who had ever asked for my number, so I gave it to him. After several giggly phone calls with this genuinely funny man, I agreed to meet him for dinner at a trendy little restaurant downtown that I suggested. When I got there, we ordered the same drink, and I smiled inwardly. Over the next hour and a half, we ate, talked, and watched snippets of the Thunder game on the TV near the bar. So far, so good...

We seemed to have a lot in common, although there were obvious differences, too…at first glance, and in many ways, I am very girl-next-door. Enough people have told me that I’m pretty that I’m starting to believe it, even if it took me a few decades. But I have a wild streak in me that not everyone gets to see…I have a few tattoos—I know, no big deal in today’s society—unless you don’t have any and the idea never even crossed your mind. The indie and alt-rock I listen to is not to everyone’s liking, I can drink most girls my size under a table, and I have been known to drop the f-bomb in casual conversation…okay, okay, I do that pretty much daily…but I’m still a Genuinely Nice Girl. I don’t hook up with random guys, I care about people’s feelings, and am one of the most loyal people you could ever meet, and I go to work, earn a paycheck, and support my kids.

S, on the other hand, was much more straight-laced than I am. First off, he’s ridiculously good-looking AND he’s a lawyer, so the fact that he was still single should’ve tipped me off that maybe something might be amiss. Although we were the same age, in the 90s, his feet were probably outfitted in Cole Haans while mine were in Doc Maartens. Some of his taste in music was good, but he was puzzled by some of the bands I loved…("I don’t know Incubus...funny name!") Hmmmm…okay…well, we were still having fun, and things were going well, so we moved on to a small bar a few blocks away. It was bowl season, and he was impressed that I actually understood football. That was the moment I knew I had him hooked, in spite of my “quirks.”

I don’t usually kiss guys on the first date…but after spending five and a half hours with my Hot Lawyer, when he leaned in, I didn’t protest.

I should have.

He instantly had his tongue so far down my throat that I had the immediate—and absurd—instinct to want to cry for help. His lips engulfed everything from the tip of my chin to the tip of my nose, and I feared drowning was inevitable if this went on much longer. I struggled in vain, and when he finally broke away, I literally GASPED for air.

I was crestfallen…the cutest guy I’d ever been out with was also the World’s Worst Kisser? What kind of cruel joke was this? In a daze, I climbed into my car, and consulted several girlfriends on the drive home. Is it possible to teach a 36-year-old man how to properly kiss a girl? The consensus? Not likely…but I was determined…so determined I dated him for another month and a half before I decided that they were indeed correct…which also gave me ample time to discover a few other less than desirable traits.

For example, he’s such a shitty tipper that I resorted to flagging our servers over when he was in the restroom and handing out extra cash. “He can’t help it!” I would whisper. “He’s never waited tables before!” A knowing smile would be exchanged, and I would get excellent service for the rest of the meal, while his glass remained largely neglected…once, when we were trying to decide where to eat, I told him I was in the mood for something different. “Oh, I know!” he exclaimed. “How about Ted’s?” It took everything I had not to get out of the car right then.

So what did I learn from S? Some things are, in fact, too good to be true…if your first kiss is bad, it may be a good idea to pack it in and wait for the next one.