Prior to meeting Leesa, I dated a lot - in my 60s. I told ladies on the dating sites I was only 21 Celsius, but most didn’t get the meteorologically-based jape. My friend Michael always got mad at me because I took these woman to ritzy restaurants on the first outing; he instead urged Starbucks to save money. Yeah, that’s what I want to do with a stranger on our first meeting - go to a brightly lighted room at nine o’clock at night, be surrounded by hipsters, and drink … coffee. I, by contrast, regarded such occasions like an opening night, a glittering social event, and a proper dinner was de rigueur. Besides, I was dining out anyway, so why not have company? Naturally, the quality of that company varied. One lady, a psychiatrist, felt the need to remark, “You’re having a second Scotch? Really? Wow”. Another, a state worker, opened with, “Well, you look nothing like your profile photo”. A third regaled me with tales of her wonderful, but dead, spouse. One woman, an oenophile, chose the wine - the $320 Pomerol - and then demanded I spring for her Uber home. Most weren’t big into the conversational arts and I was left to carry the conversational football. The next day, I’d provide Michael an after-action report. It usually went like this.
© 2024 John Oliver
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