You know those people who go on first dates that last like for 12 hours? With men they meet on the internet? Those people confound me. Especially because those 12 hours are followed (depending on the severity) by at least 48 hours of “Oh my God, he’s THE ONE! He really is this time, I just know it!!!” and then those 48 hours are, in turn, followed by another 72 of “He’s such a jerk! How could I have been so stupid???”
If you’re like me (i.e. trying to be a decent friend) you refrain from saying things like, “Duh. What did you think was gonna happen?”
Instead, you open the consolatory bottle of wine and keep to yourself the fact that 12-hour first dates with men from internet are just bad policy. They never end well. In fact, considering everything I’ve gleaned over my years of online dating, I would go so far as to say that 12-hour first dates with men from the internet should be avoided at all costs.
Which is why I’m proud to report that it was not our first date but our second that took on such marathon-esque proportions.
Here is what happened:
We met for sushi at the karaoke bar and even though I hate karaoke, he picked a duet that I had, in a moment of weakness earlier that evening, mentioned I’d quite like to sing one day. I don’t think my microphone was actually on (as evidenced by the lack of other patrons running for the door with their hands over their ears) but I sang. (How can you not sing when presented with a 1980s power ballad by Human League?)
From there, it was off to a nightclub in North Philly. I’d managed to snag to two VIP tickets to their grand opening because I’m cool like that so it was open bar and free shots and various permutations of alcohol-related swag all night.
Earlier in the evening, he had asked me how late I wanted to stay out. “Not that it matters, I’m just thinking about transportation.”
“Oh definitely not past midnight,” I’d assured him. “I have show stuff the next morning so we can just take the bus.”
But that was before he asked me to dance. Before I slipped my fingers through his, leaned my cheek onto his shoulder, discovered he did indeed have a decent sense of rhythm and smelled his manly soap-plus-deodorant-plus-cologne-wonderfulness (it is, to this day, still a bit of a mystery to me). That was before we’d thoroughly availed ourselves of the open bar. And that was, perhaps most importantly, before we kissed.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I declared several hours later. The realization had just dawned on us that there were no busses to be had back to Center City at two o’clock in the morning. And no subways to my house in South Philly. And certainly no trains back to his apartment in the suburbs.
“…But we could, if you want, share a cab back to my place and then you can take the subway to the train in the morning,” I conclude.
“There’s just one thing. My dad is coming by with a contractor at like 8:00am, so either you have to be out by then or, you know…”