Every single day, I wake up to a barrage of direct messages from possible suitors and suitresses. I halfheartedly peruse through these messages before realizing I’m wasting my own very valuable time. Even if I settled down with one person, people would still chase after me. Because I am not a perfect man; I am the perfect man. Think about it, I fit all the criteria:
-I am a Man
And that’s it! So instead of indulging these desperate pleas for a sliver of my greatness that sit in my inbox, I decided I would make more of an open opportunity to go on a pretend-date with me. That way, everybody gets a fair shot to experience the perfect date with me, the perfect man.
Planning The Date
I answer your DM, and we immediately hit it off. You ask me what my favorite sport is and without hesitation, I say “the sport of life.” I do not ask what your favorite sport is.
The idea of a date is proposed, though the location and activity of the date is wide open. You suggest getting coffee, and I turn it down. “You think I’m gonna poison the temple of my body with all that caffeine?” I say, repeatedly. Your second suggestion is us grabbing a bite to eat at this brunch restaurant your friend told you about. Though, I forget to respond for seven hours because I’m a busy and incredibly important person. You double message, asking about the date again. I accept.
Preparing For The Date
The day of the date, you stand in front of the mirror with a massive decision in front of you. You only get one chance to make a first impression, and while you’ve already kinda wasted that chance by direct messaging me, “Hey you kinda look like this old Victorian dude in a painting at my grandma’s house,” you still have the first physical impression. You want to wear something that encapsulates you. You dig through your closet, trying to find anything and everything that you could wear until you find it: the perfect fit. Everything is meticulously put together. Everything matches. It’s perfect.
I wear a T-shirt and basketball shorts.
I arrive to the restaurant at 3:30 and to my surprise, you are nowhere to be found. This is made even more surprising by the fact that I am an hour late. Perhaps you have already left, believing you’ve been stood up. I open up our text thread, only to find out that the date was actually planned for 4:30, not 2:30 like I’d initially thought. I sit at a table nearest to the bathroom because I have an overactive bladder that just doesn’t let up, and I wait for you to arrive.
You arrive at 4:30 on the dot and approach our table. Once you get to the table, I take your coat. By force. It’s my coat now, and I will wear it out of this restaurant. You kinda stare at your chair and then at me, as if you’re waiting for me to do something. “Sit down.” I say, and you do. So, perhaps that’s what you were waiting for.
“That’s a very nice T-shirt” you flirtatiously say.
“I know.” I respond.
The waiter approaches our table. Before he can say anything, I tell him what I want. “Just give me the most expensive thing on the menu.” You order french toast and a water.
As we wait for our food to come, you look at me with hopefulness and admiration. I look at my phone. After a few seconds, I look up from my phone and see you staring at me longingly. Getting caught in the act, you chuckle. You continue to look at me after your chuckle break, and I do the same. We lock eyes in what could be the first real intimacy either of us have felt in years. It’s as if you can see straight through me. You see through the apparent-facade I put up. Or so you think you do.
I look at you. That freckle on your cheek is a little weird to me. It seems out of place and quite large. And for what? Why does a freckle have to be that large? Where are the rest of them? You go to open your mouth, ready to make some type of witty remark. But before you can, I shush you and speak. “I’m gonna go piss.” I get up and go to the bathroom.
As I get back from the bathroom, I see our food being delivered by four separate waiters. You have a small serving of french toast placed in front of you by one of them, and I have three massive platters of brunch slop set on my side by the other three waiters.
You begin to eat your french toast as I struggle to choose where to begin my meal. I observe my options: a brunch burger, four stacked pancakes, or soup. After a few seconds, I realize it’s foolish of me to have to choose. There is no or in this situation; there is only an and. I must combine them.
I replace the brunch burger’s buns with two of the pancakes, then pour the soup over the pancake burger. My sopping (souping?) wet burger is now ready to eat, and I do just that — eat it. Upon taking one bite, I instinctively gag because it’s absolutely disgusting. I throw a tantrum. In an attempt to relieve my anger, you offer me the rest of your french toast.
After wiping french toast crumbs from my lips, the waiter brings our bill to the table. Before you can even get a look at it, I snatch it and look at the damage:
12x Orange Juice…$24.00
“I forgot my card,” I tell you. “But I can cover the tip.” I place all the cash I have in my wallet onto the table: a one-dollar bill and a dime.
After The Date
I stroll out of the restaurant wearing my new coat. Unbeknownst to me, you tag behind and attempt to catch up with me. You ask what happens now, and I respond with, “Here, give me your phone.” You follow the request and after a few seconds of me clicking around, I hand you the phone. I opened up the Uber app for you and requested a ride.
“Your driver will be here in six minutes.”
I turn around and walk into the horizon, ready to go back to my life devoid of intimacy and love. Because I don’t need either. I am far too cool and far too important to ever tie myself down with something as minuscule as love. Perfection doesn’t settle, and perfection doesn’t settle down.