First Impressions, Worst Impressions, and Why it Pays to be the Fat Kid

I’ll say it: It pays to be the fat kid. Sometimes being hungry pays off.

About two weeks ago, I had started talking to this guy – and no, not on Grindr. This time, I was testing out an app called Tinder. Now you straight people may be familiar with it. It’s probably the closest thing to Grindr you have on your phone. To fill those of you who’ve been living under a rock in, it shows you a picture of someone else who’s also “looking” and you swipe one way for yes and the other for no. Interested? Not interested? Swipe away! It’s like a game. Seriously. If you both swipe that you think the other is attractive it’s like “Congratulations! You’re a match!” and then asks if you want to message them or “Keep Playing” – seriously…keep playing. It’s a game. I told you. Oh, and you link it with your Facebook so you can easily upload your pictures and get to swiping quicker, see mutual “Likes” and interests, AND see if you have mutual friends. Pretty easy. Welcome to the dating in 2014.

So here we are: Congratulations! You’re a match!

Umm…jackpot. Gorgeous. Looks phenomenal in a suit. Has a picture with a French Bulldog. AND we have a mutual friend (that I can research him through and make sure he’s not psychotic). Forget this game. This calls for sending the first message.

So we talk for a few days, swap numbers, and make plans to meet up for drinks since – let’s face it – pretty much anyone can come across good via text, but if you’re socially awkward or just weird in person in general, a nonchalant meeting over a beer and and appetizer will spell it all out quick and easy. We made plans for a random weeknight – partially because I had other plans later in the week, but more importantly because working early is an easy cop-out if you need an escape from a bad weeknight date – to meet up in his neighborhood since it was on my way home from the office. Step one: Check.

That afternoon, I get a text asking if it’d be awkward to just order in and kill a bottle or two of wine at his place since the new season of Real Housewives of New York was starting that night. Any gay who guesses that delivery, wine, and RHONY are the way to my heart is an automatic winner. Now you’re probably thinking to yourself, “STRANGER DANGER! STRANGER DANGER! HE COULD BE THE CRAIGSLIST KILLER!” but always one for adventure (or good blog post material), over I went.

As it would turn out, the evening would turn into one of the best first dates I’d been on in a long time. Photos of his goddaughter on the refrigerator, a Jewish mother quote plate on his coffee table as a joke (more about Jewish mothers another time), and conversation that flowed easier than the wine (shocking). All of a sudden, the two hour window I’d blocked out  for our “date” that evening turned into four times that, and it was the next morning already. Heading home to get ready for work, I had a smile on my face that even the Grinch would be jealous of…..and no, I did not put out. Yes, first base may have been crossed and perhaps a quick jaunt to second, but that’s where it stopped because I busted out the “I have a 30-day rule if I’m interested in someone” line.

So naturally, the first two to hear about how it went were my twin and the Goddess of the Gays. Both let me annoy them for the next few days talking about how nice he was and blah blah blah. You get it.

Later in the week I was a few blocks from where he works doing a site visit for work. I’d had this awesome (and totally overpriced) coffee at a Starbucks a few days earlier and figured I’d grab one for each of us and drop by as a surprise because who doesn’t like a Friday afternoon pick-me-up, right? I mean, I’d rather it be in the form of a bottle of wine or Jack Daniels rather than a coffee, but coffee is better than nothing. Of course, he was totally surprised/excited/whatever. Cue the texts later that “That was seriously so cute earlier. Thank you so much! Today told me a lot about you. A nice respectable guy with a romantic side. I want to take you on a date tomorrow night if you’re not blackout drunk from being with your friends all day, but I totally understand if you are since it’s St. Patrick’s Day weekend.”

So we make plans that hinge on whether or not I’m schwasted. Because I think I kind of like the guy, I decide to (attempt to) pace myself throughout the day. Success. Drunk, but not blitzed. Go me. Apparently I’m slowly growing up.

That evening, I end up over there. Pizza and breadsticks get ordered. Wine is consumed. One thing leads to another…

Next thing you know, only two breadsticks and a few pieces of pizza are left (and my 30-day rule hasn’t been 100% broken either).

Waking up with an iPhone down to 7% of the battery remaining, plans to meet friends for brunch at 1:30pm, and no clean clothes or time to get home to change since it’s now 12:02pm the next morning, I set about to borrow a shirt (asking permission obviously since I’m a gentleman and not a klepto), spritz myself with some of his Prada, and freshen the weave. Thank god for good product because you’d have never known I hadn’t taken well over an hour to get ready as usual. All the while, I’m housing the last two breadsticks because – like any good gay with a fat kid trapped inside him – I had to shut that bitch up the only way I could figure out how to through my hungover haze: with two breadsticks and a slice of pizza. Sorry brunch, but the fattie wouldn’t shut up.

We’d talked earlier in the week about hanging out that night but figured since we’d both be slightly inebriated from the bottomless mimosa (and two martinis and bottle service afterwards in my case) brunches we’d be heading off to with our friends, that it might be more beneficial to wait until Monday.

Fast forwarding to Monday and skipping the literal blur that is Sunday afternoon/evening, I shot him a quick text on my way to the office telling him to have a great day and keep me posted on whether or not he wanted to still grab dinner that night.

That’s when the tables flipped. So much for that good first impression….

“Oy. I woke up with papa johns leftover breadsticks on the pillow next to me, half eaten. Lol”

Immediately I thought to myself….hmm, that’s odd because I totally at the last two, and I know there weren’t more in the pizza box or I would have eaten them too. Curiosity getting the best of me, I asked if he’d ordered more since I could have sworn we ate them all the night before. Nope. Same ones.

Newsflash: Don’t lie to the former fat kid about breadsticks that don’t exist. They only way they’d be on your pillow is if I’d thrown them back up, and that obviously didn’t happen.

Needless to say, dinner that evening didn’t happen. No cancellation text. Not even a “Hey! I know we’d talked about maybe hanging out tonight – were you still free?” message…but I let it slide. Something had probably come up.

I explained the whole situation (read: bitched about it) that evening to my twin. I always know I can go to him since he always gives the best advice – probably because we’re pretty much the same person. After a long string of messages (read: more like a novel), I receive the following response:

“Sorry was fucking. Let me read these all”

“God I hate when people say that shit. I don’t think he’s very genuine. The making up breadstick story is a big deal. If you lie about something that little I can’t even imagine what else you make up. You’re probably sleeping. Text me in the am”

I seriously love this guy. Best advice ever. Always.

I decided to take the higher road and be the bigger person. Was I going to call him out via text? No. Was I going to blog about it? Not at first. I reached out and invited him over for dinner to confront the situation in person. Knowing he probably wouldn’t be out of work until 8 as usual (alas, such is my life too) and eats just as late as I do, I phrased it open-ended and mentioned I had chicken defrosting in the fridge and asparagus to use before it went bad so if he didn’t have plans he should come over. He responded that it was sweet and he’d let me know but had a client coming in at 6 so he probably wouldn’t be out until 8. Just as I figured. No big deal. I told him that was fine and mentioned I’d probably be working late as well but would be doing laundry tonight (still not done by the way) and would have his shirt I’d borrowed washed and pressed for him. Housewife 101.

Shortly after 1pm, he lets me know his client is still on for 6 but would let me know if anything changed.

Well here we are…nearly ten hours later. No text. No call.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s lying – especially about stupid things like breadsticks that no longer exist. Actually, there’s two things I can’t stand if you include flakes. The only kind of flakes I like are frosted and in a box with Tony the Tiger on the front.

But hey, at least now I have leftovers for lunch tomorrow, right?



(And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming – and yes, that means I’ll get back to writing about my Mexican adventure and stop keeping you in suspense…)

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