Recently, I went on a date. This isn’t all that newsworthy, except that I ventured a little out of my comfort zone, and went out with someone who has an upper-class career,
and the pricey perks that go with it. We occasionally do business with each other from time to time, and we’ve always gotten along fine for the whopping 15 minutes we’ve been in each other’s company. Of course, when he asked me out, which I did not see coming, I suddenly lost my ability to look him in the eye, and my voice got about 709 octaves higher. I’m sure at one point, only dogs could hear me when I spoke. :-)There’s something about being right there engaged with someone who is dressed better, driving a better car, and probably didn’t even look at the prices on the menu, that made me feel poverty stricken. I suspected he didn’t want to drive the fancy car to my apartment because he didn’t want a car-jacking to spoil our evening, but the truth of the matter was, it was my idea to meet him somewhere. See what I mean? A poor guy driving a 1985 Ford Pick-Up truck that backfires every 3rd mile wouldn’t have had his motives scrutinized so carefully. I felt…. poor. And not just the regular, “no-money” poor either. Nope. Poor like “you-should-have-made-better-choices-like-me-and-everyone-I-know” kind of poor.
Note: He did NOT do this on purpose, for the record…this was all me.
I make a lot of jokes about living at The 61 ghetto of south Tulsa, but until that one dinner date, I never really felt like I could be described as “ghetto”. Compared to him, I felt like a gangsta. If I ever go on a date with someone from that side of the tracks again, I’m going to embrace my inner gansta and dress like I’m working the street corner of Peoria and 61st street. It couldn’t be worse than this was!!
Johnny, as we’ll call him here (Warbucks…lol) went out of his way to either pretend he couldn’t tell I was a nervous mess dressed in the best Target had to offer, or maybe all the dogs barking when I talked was distracting him. All I know is that when I’m nervous, I tend to make jokes and giggle nervously. Maybe that crap was cute when I was eight, but at 44.9999 years old, it’s just plain humiliating. I’m sure he was wondering how this girl he’s been seeing off and on through his office for a while now suddenly became a weirdo dog whisperer, randomly trying to hide little outbursts of nervous laughter, and hiding behind her hair like Cousin It…
What was I laughing about, you ask?
All night, I kept wondering if I was on a date with a guy who was technically “slumming it”!! I think by all measurable standards, he was!! I’m poor, living in the Slums of Tulsa, and he is not. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only without the happy ending, if you know what I mean. Only all night, I felt like Julia would have if she’d had to wear those thigh-high boots, skanky white top, and horrible blonde wig the entire week.
I did not like my date. Poor Johnny! He was so nice, but he did NOT get my humor at all. I certainly did not tell him what I was laughing at, and there was just nothing going on that I could say was funny at all. Maybe he thought I was laughing at him!! He probably is still trying to figure out what the hell!!
It made me laugh the entire week, and not nervously either. I think I might be a little bit of a snob! I have no idea why it made me laugh that much and that long, but I’m pretty sure Johnny won’t be driving through my parking lot in a limo with flowers any time soon!
I freaking hate dating. I really do.