Double Feature

I am constantly double booking myself.

No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to keep my schedule straight. I’m constantly pushing this forward and pushing this back to try and fulfill all the plans I’ve made.

This is especially a problem when dating. You’re talking with someone, you’re getting along, they ask “When are you free?” and you say Friday—but you forgot you already had a date with someone else.

That’s exactly what happened to me when I set up a date with A, forgetting about my previously scheduled date with B. Both men were cute; both men were smart; both men had boyfriend potential. If I rescheduled one of them, I risked the chance of not seeing him—people become disinterested so quickly.

So, I pushed forward my date with A, pushed back my date with B, and got ready for a long night.

A wanted to meet at a wine bar and B wanted to meet for dinner, which sounded perfect to me. I met A around 6:00pm.

I don’t know what we were thinking, but we drank two bottles of wine, talking about God-knows-what. Before I knew it, I was blowing him at his apartment a few blocks away. What a classy lady am I.

We both finished around 8, 30 minutes before I was supposed to meet B. Perfect timing. I text him asking where he wanted to get dinner.

“I actually already ate,” he responded. “Wanna try out this wine bar I like?”

Drunk me knew that I was drunk and needed food, but what was I supposed to do?

The wine didn’t hit me well: something inside of me went sour after my first glass with B. I wanted a fight—so I picked one. I was blonde then, and he asked me jokingly what my natural hair color was.

“Excuse me?!” I slurred, loudly. Surrounding tables glanced at me. I kept drinking more and more on my empty stomach—unless you count cum. “Would you EVER ask a woman in a padded bra what her real breast size is?!”

B chuckled. “No, that’s not a situation I’d find myself in.” Looking back, I think he realized the date was over right then and there, but decided to sit it out.

It did not get any better. He told me a story about losing a promotion: instead of throwing the guy under the bus, he waited it out and landed a better job for more money somewhere else. “Karma,” he said.

“I’m glad that happened for you and all,” I said, too loudly, “but I never would have done that. I would throw anyone under the bus to get ahead in life.”
I have no idea why I said that. Blame it on the merlot. Or the pinot grigio. Or the chardonnay. B asked for the check.

In the end, I never heard from either of them again. But, in a more sober state, I had high hopes that C would work out—whoever he may be.