Date Report - Prepare to Laugh at me

So I had my date last night. It was good. I like the woman, as I said previously she's smart and funny and pretty. She has really impressed me with her ambitiousness, her seriousness about life and what she wants from it. That is probably as much about her being impressive as it is about her being so different from the last couple gals I dated, who were in their early to mid-thirties and just content with floating along.

Anyway, the date was on last moments notice, and everywhere I called was full up, so we ended up going to Tremont Tap House. It was really loud, compared with what I remember from last time, but it was fun and the beer/food was good. When we finished up and walked out, there was still about an hour left until we were to meet our mutual friends at a show, so I suggested we grab a drink somewhere else in Tremont. She agreed, and we drove over to Sokolowski's.

Yes, Sokolowski's. The Polish cafeteria. That one.

I'm sure most of you reading this are now snorting, hopefully in a somewhat sympathetic laugh.

In my defense, somehow I had it in my head that since she was talking about her Polish roots she'd like it.

I am a fool. I know this. Some times my brain just doesn't work.

Actually, I can't say she didn't like it, I don't know. She seems pretty laid back, so maybe she was cool with it. She didn't refuse to go in. That's something, right?

While we are there, she starts yawning and apologizing for her yawning. We each drink a beer and head out to the car. By this time it is clear that the "meet at the show" part isn't happening, and I start driving her home.

We chat and joke during the drive home, and when I drop her off there is the awkward in-car hug. She gets out, I back out the drive way, and as I'm leaving I send a text to her friend, asking her to let me know what she hears.

Except....

I accidentally sent the text message to the girl I had just been out with, not the friend that had set us up.

Now you can start guffawing.

It was like a slow motion traffic accident. I typed the text, then went to my "recently used numbers" list. Date Girl was second on that list, Our Mutual Friend was third. I started scrolling down and as I went to select Our Mutual Friend the joint in my thumb locked up and I hit the wrong button completely inadvertently.

As I sat there, now at the stop sign at the end of her block, I watched in horror as the screen flashed from "Sending Message" to "Message Sent" screens. In my head, and maybe out loud, there was a steady drone of "oh no .... oh no .... Oh no .... Oh No .... OH NO!."

But, Oh Yes, I had done it.

At this point, I was faced with an impossible decision. Ignore my buffoonery and just resend the message to Our Mutual Friend or try to explain what had happened to Date Girl. Upon reflection I don't know if my decision was the right one, but I immediately called her up.

When she answered, it was obvious she thought I was being creepy. That was fair, as it is pretty creepy to drop someone off and then call them 2.5 minutes later, while your car is still sitting at the stop sign at the end of their block. She answers and I say, "Don't worry, this isn't a creepy post-date call, this is a douchebag post-date call." Like that's better. I explained what had happened in as quick a manner as possible. She sort of laughs, says she had heard the phone beep in her purse but hadn't had a chance to read the text yet. I assured her that when she did, she'd have proof that I was a total idiot. I'm not a mind-reader, but I'm pretty certain she was thinking that she already had that proof.

I told her again I had a nice time and would call her soon and we hung up. I tossed my cell phone in the back seat and drove home with the blood slowly draining from my face.

By the time I got home, I was appreciating the humor of the situation. Later I received a text from her friend, something to the effect of how she had heard about the text incident, thought it was hilarious and cute.

Whatever.

All I can say is thank god I'm not from one of those traditional societies where you have to kill yourself out of shame. If so, I'd be splattered on the pavement in some ironic pose. As it is, I'll just hide in my apartment.

So there you have it, Lesson # 953 on why I am still the Cleveland Bachelor.