Pretty Buff, Huh?

I have gone on 3 blind dates in my life. One in high school (took me 8 years to recover) and 2 since living in the Midwest—with the last being the most epic fail.

To start, I am not a phone person--just not my forte for communication. BBM and texting, now that is a different story… My bbm got exchanged pre-date with the guy we will refer to as PB. There was at least 2 weeks of conversation so I could at least established and see a profile picture of PB. He looked normal, not bad looking, plus it had been like 3 years since I had been on a date—desperate times call for desperate measures. PB works at a bank downtown. Don’t really know what he does at this bank, but he wears a suit to work. He has a job and a car—two qualities not always found in the males in the single category.

We decide on a day to go out. He gets my address and is going to pick me up (I know, but he’s friends with a mutual friend—clearly not a psycho and I took self-defense class in undergrad). He gets my digits in case he gets lost. I put on my heels, True Religions, and am looking like a drag queen by Midwest standards (on average, girls here aren’t into the fake tans, dyed hair, and the whole Dolly Parton look that is prominent in NETN/SWVA). The estimated time of arrival is here and no PB.

My phone rings.
Me: Hello?
PB: Where the f’ do you live? I can’t find your f’ing condo. I am down some gd street. Where the f’ am I supposed to go.

I should have hung up, but I have a temper and a potty mouth—plus, I am already dressed to go to dinner and I refuse to go to Chipotle to get a burrito by myself for the second night in a row—so I let it slide, finally get him to stop dropping f’ bombs and give him better directions to my condo than google maps could.

He pulls up and I am waiting outside. Decent car, I spot he is in a suit, looks pretty good until he steps out of the car—no offense to shorter men, but if I can pick you up and carry you around my coach purse like a mini-yorkie you don’t stand a chance to get with this. There is a height requirement for this ride and you do not meet it short stack. He might have been 5’6 on a good day… and I am wearing 4 inch heels and clocking in at a good 6’1. This is worse than him cussing me out because he couldn’t find my condo. Attack of the 50 foot woman--St. Louis edition.

We stand and talk—trying to decide what we are doing. I am already over this and pissed I got set up with an umpa lumpa with a bad temper, no sense of direction, and potty mouth. He asks if he can change in my condo because he doesn’t want to wear his suit to dinner. I say sure because no way is this a danger--I could kick his ass with one arm tied behind my back.

I set down on the couch and show him into my room where he can change. I text a friend for moral support about this situation and then it happens… the moment that is repeated so lovingly by my co-workers and is in the blind date hall of shame… he walks out in jeans and a wife beater and does a Vanna White sweeping motion from his chest to waist with both hands and says “pretty buff, huh?”.

Pretty buff? Are you kidding me? He goes back into my bedroom and grabs an extra large long sleeved St. Louis Blues jersey and puts on. Don’t get me wrong, I love to see a guy in a nice jersey with a backwards fitted hat on game day… but it’s not game day and PB could wear a youth small—there was no need for him to waste the extra money on a men’s extra large. His hands do not even hang out of the bottom of the sleeves. My mind immediately starts thinking—closest place to eat so I can get this over with!

We walk next door to a pizza place. I order a salad because I know that will be quick because it doesn’t have to bake. He orders a pizza. We chat. I spend a lot of time praying for one of my student workers to call me with a work emergency. The little bastards call me every night of the week with something--why not tonight? He tells me a few lies about playing Minor League Baseball. Trust me, after growing up around and working in the MiLB, I can spot a baseball player from a mile away—I am like Haley Joel Osmond and it is my sixth sense—and my baseballdar was not going off. Additionally, I know my teams, leagues, and affiliations… you can’t lie to me about that of all things. Maybe he was the bat boy? He is the size of one. Look at those midget digit fingers. I bet he couldn't palm a nerf ball. I probably have a faster fast ball than this douche. Our food comes. He doesn’t use a napkin, but instead wipes the oil/grease from the pizza on his jeans and uses the extra foot of jersey sleeve to wipe his mouth. I almost threw up.

Finally, it’s over and I return to my condo. I immediately delete him from bbm and block all future invitations and call a friend to laugh hysterically about it. Never again will I go on a blind date. Never. Feel free to share the story—everyone else that has heard it does.