So it’s Sunday evening, I’m sitting in the stands at my first hockey game (which also happens to a hockey game in which Date #7 is playing) and I have officially run out of snacks. As such, I decide to make an effort to talk to the woman in the Cubs t-shirt seated to my right. She and I represent 66% of the total attendees scattered throughout the stands, after all.
“Which one is yours?” she asks.
“The one in the middle,” I reply.
“In the middle?” she asks in disbelief. “The one in the middle is mine. Is yours farther from us or closer to us?”
“Farther from us,” I assure her. “In the black socks.”
“Ah, okay,” she nods. “Mine’s in the yellow socks.”
(Phew! But as a brief aside, can you imagine coming to a hockey game, meeting a woman in the stands and realizing you’re both there to cheer on the same “boyfriend?” Perish the thought…)
We make small talk for a while and finally she asks, “So what does your boyfriend do?”
First of all, there’s the use of the word “boyfriend.” Then there’s the issue of what he does for a living. No one’s ever asked me before, and it’s rather hard to explain, so I stammer my way through the best account I can give and finally confess, “We don’t actually know each other all that well. This is only the second time we’ve met and I’m just visiting from Philadelphia for the weekend.”
She looks at me like I’m a bit crazy, which I probably am, but finally smiles and nods in understanding when I mention the magic words: Match.com.
At this point, I turn my focus back to the game. To be honest, I really need to use the restroom but I’m afraid that Date #7 will do something exciting the moment I get up so I wait, and wait, and wait and finally sprint down the steps after he makes a fabulous… shot? Score? Goal? I have no idea.
At any rate, it was cool. And I didn’t miss it.
In the end, “the white team” loses but the woman in the Cubs t-shirt assures me that this is only their second loss all year.
I check my makeup and head down towards the locker rooms to wait for Date #7 but after twiddling my thumbs for ten minutes, I start to feel rather stupid. His teammates don’t even bother to glance in my direction as they emerge, one by one, and suddenly my Victoria’s Secret get up seems a bit over the top.
Oh well. We still have one more day together.
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- Pittsburgh, Part 1 (katrichterwrites.wordpress.com)
- Six More Hours: The Countdown to Date #7 Begins… (katrichterwrites.wordpress.com)
- The Pittsburgh Saga, Part 2 (katrichterwrites.wordpress.com)