So I’m standing in the middle of the Primate House at the Philadelphia Zoo with my Three O’Clock and he’s just asked me, “So, what number am I?”
He’s referring, of course, to my blog, and my spreadsheet and the fact that I’m on my second date in as many hours. (Actually he doesn’t know that last bit; he’s Googled me, so he knows I’ve become something of a serial dater, but he doesn’t know that I’m currently engaged in the second double header of my serial dating career or that he’s the second man I’ve gone out with since noon.)
After some consideration, I take a deep breath and reply (rather casually, if I do say so myself), “25 or so?”
I’m casual because we’re only in the Primate House and to be honest, the only thing that makes me laugh more than monkeys is my Three O’Clock’s commentary about the monkeys. If we were having this conversation in the “Carnivore Kingdom” for example, I might be a bit more worried about my date’s reaction because he could, quite literally, toss me to the lions if he didn’t care for my response.
But it’s only the Primate House.
And it’s only a blog.
And he writes a blog too so we’re good.
Unfortunately, spring has yet to take root in Philadelphia so most of the animals are just lying in their carefully-crafted habitats not-doing-anything. (I guess I was expecting cartwheels or at least some, you know, running around). Nonetheless, as we make our way past t the kangaroos and my Three O’Clock launches into a rather impressive Australian accent, I decide that a trip to the zoo is an excellent first date.
By the time we seek out the polar bears and discover that we’re both fans of Katherine Tate (I know, I know, she’s old school. But I’m not bovvered, and neither is my date) I decide that this particular double header calls for a few… extra innings.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.
“Sure,” he agrees.
Seeing as he’s not actually from Philadelphia, it falls upon me to decide where to acquire this drink, but this is fine because I’m an in-the-know, girl-about-town these days.
In fact, I know of a great place on Market Street that’s just…
Really, it’s only one more block…
I swear! It’s just around the corner…
Finally, I call my-friend-the-yoga-teacher and before she can ask me where I am, who I’m with or how it’s going (such questions are best avoided during double headers, especially as our last conversation was about an entirely different man than the one currently at my side) I stammer, “Remember that bar that’s near the rock wall that we went to before we went to that show at the Community Education Center last month where there was the dancer who did that thing with those tubes connecting her arms to her legs?”
“You mean Landmark?”
“Yes! Landmark! Where is it exactly?”
It turns out we were nearly there, which means I’m not quite as directionally challenged as I’d previously feared.
We order drinks and a few munchies and when he asks for “a kiss for the road” I’m all but too happy to oblige.