Sometimes, I do it right.
Meet a fellow and he chats me up.
I get his phone number. Call him. 'Cuz I only take numbers when I mean to call.
Meet him at a neutral location.
He shows up.
I have a good time. I DO NOT KNIT, even though Luke the bartender asks where my knitting is. Regale him with stories. Properly edited, of course.
I suggest ending the date at an appropriate time. IT IS SUNDAY, after all.
I allow him to drive me to a convenient location close to my house where he drops me off (I've had my fair share of stalker scares).
While in the car, I think I may be old enough to be his mom. Well, close. I'm definitely older. I also think "I have never been in the cool car with the tinted windows and reverbing bass before, this is fun, too bad the song is about a stripper." I think I say that out loud.
I did say it out loud, and he responds about asking what kind of music I like. I say something about being a sucker for a sad country song. I am soooo not hip. He responds by asking for clarification: do I prefer Merle or Waylon. This pleases me, as I adore Waylon, Willie and the boys, and we didn't even get close to talking about music when the official date part was going on.
We smooch (well, I kissed him, because I was so pleased about being in a cool car), and make plans to talk later in the week. Something about a new Spiderman movie coming out.
I waltz home, thinking "this is great, this is fun."
I get home and think "he's cute, but dumb as a post".
And, that's harsh. He's not dumb at all, I'm sure of it. He's kind, and hard-working, and a good listener, and all the good things a man should be. I even mentioned the "fiber-arts" a couple times, and he didn't even raise an eyebrow.
This boy has potential. Why am I sad that his eyes aren't blue? Brown is just as fine, especially when those eyes are looking at me.