Number of blocks I walk to meet Date #9 at Sabrina’s for lunch in the Italian Market: 12
Number of parties ahead of us by the time I arrive: 0 (This time, Date #9 has gotten there early and his name is already on the list. We bypass the hipsters of South Philadelphia and once I’m done debating whether I should give him a kiss on the lips or play it safe and go for the cheek, we head straight for a table by the window.)
Entrees I want to order: 6 (I’ve been up since 6:30 thanks to my Sunday School duties, I haven’t eaten and somehow, for all the time I’ve spent in Philadelphia, I’ve missed out on the mouth watering ecstasy of Sabrina’s Brunch menu. Teacher’s Pet PB&J Stuffed French Toast? Cafeteria Carrot and Cookie Cakes? How did I not know about this place?)
Entrees I do order: 1 (Spinach and pair salad. The cream cheese, roasted walnuts and Nutter Butter cookie crunch slathered in apple-berry compote seemed a bit much for a second date.)
Cups of coffee Date #9 and I consume over the course of our meal: 6.5 (Fortunately it’s only decaf.)
Hours we spend conversing before deciding to go for a stroll: approximately 1.5 (This, by the way, is the proper duration for a Sunday afternoon date as opposed to the 43-minute catastrophe that transpired between Date #4 and I last month. I had spent two hours preparing for said catastrophe and so when Date #4 took a look at his watch, informed me he was due for dinner with his parents and offered to drive me home, I went stomping off like a teenage girl. Unfortunately I wasn’t wearing heels so I wasn’t able to stomp very loudly.)
Note: This why it’s important to wear heels whenever you go out; if your date pisses you off, you can stomp away with conviction. Although Date #9 has warned me that he has to meet his parents for dinner (and I’m trying to be a little less insane this time around) I’m not taking any chances. I am wearing my cherry red Cuban heels because Cuban heels are the absolute best for stomping.
Number of times Date #9 asks “Are you sure you’re okay to walk in those shoes?” 3
Numbers of times I assure him that “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. These are my comfortable heels.” 3
Number of blocks we walk from Sabrina’s to Penn’s Landing for an afternoon stroll: Um… (I lost track after ten because we’re too busy talking architecture but I’m guessing we’re up to 20 by the time we reach Market Street.)
Number of blocks for which I intend to accompany Date #9 on his way to the train station: 9 (Yes, it’s completely out of my way, and yes I’m starting to think that my stomp-with-conviction heels weren’t really necessary, and yes, I should probably get home and prepare for my first day on the new job but what can I say? This is first enjoyable date I’ve had in… well, in a while.)
Number of blocks for which I manage to accompany Date #9 on his way to the train station: 1 (I know it’s a bad idea to start a relationship based on lies so when we reach the corner of Market and 2nd, I confess, “Actually my feet are starting to hurt, so I’m going to take my leave now.”
Number of cars crossing the intersection when Date #9 waves goodbye and steps into the oncoming traffic without looking: 3 (I had decided that a proper kiss hello, like the PB&J French toast, would be a bit over the top. A proper kiss goodbye, however… well that’s another story.)
Note: Date #9 manages to make it safely across the street.
Number of new blisters acquired as a result of Sunday’s jaunt: 4 (This brings the grand total up to an ungodly amount and yes, I’m probably going to keep complaining about my mangled feet until it’s cold enough that I’ll have to start wearing sensible footwear again.)