Memoirs of the Mundane - The Date
One must cherish the mundane—the equilibrium of life.
Dating: An honored past time of the previous generations. And the awkward curse of the techno-generations. We try to participate, because we've been sold the dream by our parents, grandparents, movies, and hormonal yearnings, but the landscape has changed. We don't live in that bygone world.
There's nothing but eggshells and anxiety in our playing field.
It started out with a text message. And when the Sexy Stallion beckons, one does not protest. "Thou shalt go on a date with my blind friend." "I mean, thou shalt go on a blind date with my friend who actually has rather good vision." Me, being a humble military boy from The South (or something like that) responded "Sir, yes Sir."
Skip forward to the date. I drive up cool and easy to her apartment, roll down the window, wink, smile, run a comb through my perfectly greased back hair, and say "Hey baby, jump in. Let's cruise the town." Okay, okay, so that may have actually been James Dean instead of me, but sometimes the internal monologue tends to get a little delusional. You've been there before.
The truth of the matter is: I drove up cool and easy to her apartment, rolled down the window and said, "jump in." And being a sensible girl, limited by the fact that I do not drive a convertible Cadillac, she opened the door and got in rather than jumped. She eyed my giant American flag bowtie and with a twitch of fear or perhaps patriotism, knew that she just might be in over her head. After a moment or perhaps an eternity, I removed the bowtie and told professed, "they say first impressions are really important—so I had to make sure I'd ruin mine." True story. Direct quote.
[Interjection]
As all great writers know (if you know, you know. you know?) the best time to write is typically 30 mins after you should have gone to bed. I have yet again found myself in that golden hour of literacy. So after waiting approximately 8 days since I wrote the afore typed paragraphs, and having just been assaulted by a man hiding in my closet in nothing but his underpants, I join you again, dear reader, to tell my tale. As blood drips gently from the left corner of my lower lip, I am reminded of our dearly beloved Hemingway. I should imagine that after wrestling beasts in the plains of Africa or facing the infamous Spanish bull in the ring, he, still bleeding, would sit down to write. I too have fought perilous beasts this night—younger brothers. But those tales are not mundane enough to be recounted here. So now that I am (almost) on the same plane as Hemingway, I shall continue this tale, trying to make it as mundane as the middle chapters of For Whom The Bell Tolls.
[Authorly ego back in check (well almost, as I just created my own word 'authorly')
—writing resumes]
Now that she was likely fed up with me after the first five minutes, we began the sashay of platitudes and getting to know you drills—making sure not to leave any of the boxes unchecked. Sashay of platitudes—I rather like that. As you avid ballet fans will know, it should actually be spelled chassé,
but we American-speaking folk don't care much for "froggy" spellings of words. And you intelligent readers, as well as the government, and Mark Zuckerberg, will have already read my mind, and therefore know that the heroine and hero (that's me) of this story later find themselves at such a ballet.
So now that I've ruined the story, and wasted a few moments of your life, I'll apologize—I'm sorry. And you can hit the x button on your tab and be spared the remaining mundane details of this date.
The excitement in our date peaked when there was nowhere to park at the delectable Bombay House. Being Americans, we felt repulsed at the thought of having to walk more than five feet to, well, anywhere. But by the strength of our European ancestry, we were able to survive the half block distance parked from the restaurant. The restaurant was nearly as crowded as the streets of Bombay itself; with little stray dogs, I mean children, nipping at our feet. Finally we were seated and went about the dreadful business of, "so what are you going to get?" conversation.
After carefully playing curry roulette (the dodgy game of trying to decide which curry is least likely to destroy your bowels and leave you in utter shame while trying to perform flirting rituals), we selected our poisons and slipped idly into the rote topic of missionary experiences. When one finds themself in this conversation, it is likely that all hope is lost—unless your date happens to have a strange fetish for neckties and name tags—in which case, you should most certainly run!
Mission stories never seem to translate well to other people; they never quite get it, as they weren't there to see you in all your shining glory. I think the wise leaders of the church know this fact, which is why they tell you with a sly grin that your greatest convert will be yourself. She certainly wasn't getting converted to me as I rambled on about life in the orient. This topic is a sure way to follow the iron rod straight to the friend-zone. And she can't be blamed for that. Every time I start really talking about my mission to the other half of the jigsaw puzzle, I want to friend-zone myself! (Edit: I didn't intend that metaphor to be as dirty as it could be taken. Get your mind out of the gutter! C'mon!)
Somewhere between dinner and the ballet, she turned to discover the life sized skeleton chilling in the back seat of my car. At that point, her hand moved cautiously towards the door handle, contemplating the jump. Needless to say, she failed both my tests. Or, more importantly, I failed both her tests.
Anyhow, we found ourselves at the sparkling new UVU theater building to attend Ballet West's production of Giselle. My recommendation to you, dear reader, is to stick to opera. Or at least Tchaikovsky. But if you're going to date one of the two, ballet dancers tend to be more attractive. Then again, if you can convince him/her/they to sing you to sleep every night, an opera star would be advantageous. But then again, then again, many operas seem to end with someone killing their significant other, so it's probably best to stick with the ballet dancer after all.
As it is now well past my bedtime, I shall leave you to guess at or fill in the remaining mundane details of how my date went. But the moral of the story is: save bowties and skeletons for the second date. Adieu*.
*Translation: another "froggy" word meaning: goodbye
Dating: An honored past time of the previous generations. And the awkward curse of the techno-generations. We try to participate, because we've been sold the dream by our parents, grandparents, movies, and hormonal yearnings, but the landscape has changed. We don't live in that bygone world.
There's nothing but eggshells and anxiety in our playing field.
It started out with a text message. And when the Sexy Stallion beckons, one does not protest. "Thou shalt go on a date with my blind friend." "I mean, thou shalt go on a blind date with my friend who actually has rather good vision." Me, being a humble military boy from The South (or something like that) responded "Sir, yes Sir."
Skip forward to the date. I drive up cool and easy to her apartment, roll down the window, wink, smile, run a comb through my perfectly greased back hair, and say "Hey baby, jump in. Let's cruise the town." Okay, okay, so that may have actually been James Dean instead of me, but sometimes the internal monologue tends to get a little delusional. You've been there before.
The truth of the matter is: I drove up cool and easy to her apartment, rolled down the window and said, "jump in." And being a sensible girl, limited by the fact that I do not drive a convertible Cadillac, she opened the door and got in rather than jumped. She eyed my giant American flag bowtie and with a twitch of fear or perhaps patriotism, knew that she just might be in over her head. After a moment or perhaps an eternity, I removed the bowtie and told professed, "they say first impressions are really important—so I had to make sure I'd ruin mine." True story. Direct quote.
[Interjection]
As all great writers know (if you know, you know. you know?) the best time to write is typically 30 mins after you should have gone to bed. I have yet again found myself in that golden hour of literacy. So after waiting approximately 8 days since I wrote the afore typed paragraphs, and having just been assaulted by a man hiding in my closet in nothing but his underpants, I join you again, dear reader, to tell my tale. As blood drips gently from the left corner of my lower lip, I am reminded of our dearly beloved Hemingway. I should imagine that after wrestling beasts in the plains of Africa or facing the infamous Spanish bull in the ring, he, still bleeding, would sit down to write. I too have fought perilous beasts this night—younger brothers. But those tales are not mundane enough to be recounted here. So now that I am (almost) on the same plane as Hemingway, I shall continue this tale, trying to make it as mundane as the middle chapters of For Whom The Bell Tolls.
[Authorly ego back in check (well almost, as I just created my own word 'authorly')
—writing resumes]
Now that she was likely fed up with me after the first five minutes, we began the sashay of platitudes and getting to know you drills—making sure not to leave any of the boxes unchecked. Sashay of platitudes—I rather like that. As you avid ballet fans will know, it should actually be spelled chassé,
but we American-speaking folk don't care much for "froggy" spellings of words. And you intelligent readers, as well as the government, and Mark Zuckerberg, will have already read my mind, and therefore know that the heroine and hero (that's me) of this story later find themselves at such a ballet.
So now that I've ruined the story, and wasted a few moments of your life, I'll apologize—I'm sorry. And you can hit the x button on your tab and be spared the remaining mundane details of this date.
The excitement in our date peaked when there was nowhere to park at the delectable Bombay House. Being Americans, we felt repulsed at the thought of having to walk more than five feet to, well, anywhere. But by the strength of our European ancestry, we were able to survive the half block distance parked from the restaurant. The restaurant was nearly as crowded as the streets of Bombay itself; with little stray dogs, I mean children, nipping at our feet. Finally we were seated and went about the dreadful business of, "so what are you going to get?" conversation.
After carefully playing curry roulette (the dodgy game of trying to decide which curry is least likely to destroy your bowels and leave you in utter shame while trying to perform flirting rituals), we selected our poisons and slipped idly into the rote topic of missionary experiences. When one finds themself in this conversation, it is likely that all hope is lost—unless your date happens to have a strange fetish for neckties and name tags—in which case, you should most certainly run!
Mission stories never seem to translate well to other people; they never quite get it, as they weren't there to see you in all your shining glory. I think the wise leaders of the church know this fact, which is why they tell you with a sly grin that your greatest convert will be yourself. She certainly wasn't getting converted to me as I rambled on about life in the orient. This topic is a sure way to follow the iron rod straight to the friend-zone. And she can't be blamed for that. Every time I start really talking about my mission to the other half of the jigsaw puzzle, I want to friend-zone myself! (Edit: I didn't intend that metaphor to be as dirty as it could be taken. Get your mind out of the gutter! C'mon!)
Somewhere between dinner and the ballet, she turned to discover the life sized skeleton chilling in the back seat of my car. At that point, her hand moved cautiously towards the door handle, contemplating the jump. Needless to say, she failed both my tests. Or, more importantly, I failed both her tests.
Anyhow, we found ourselves at the sparkling new UVU theater building to attend Ballet West's production of Giselle. My recommendation to you, dear reader, is to stick to opera. Or at least Tchaikovsky. But if you're going to date one of the two, ballet dancers tend to be more attractive. Then again, if you can convince him/her/they to sing you to sleep every night, an opera star would be advantageous. But then again, then again, many operas seem to end with someone killing their significant other, so it's probably best to stick with the ballet dancer after all.
As it is now well past my bedtime, I shall leave you to guess at or fill in the remaining mundane details of how my date went. But the moral of the story is: save bowties and skeletons for the second date. Adieu*.
*Translation: another "froggy" word meaning: goodbye
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