Paul and I had been attempting to get together for a few weeks, but our schedules never aligned. He was working crazy hours, and I was dating like crazy, so I didn't have a lot of free time to add someone new to the rotation. After I had canceled plans with him twice, I figured I either needed to actually see him, or stop responding to his text messages.
Being one to never discount the possibility of meeting someone awesome, and given the fact that I was scheduled to be in LA for work I agreed to meet Paul at the Black Boar. The Black Boar is kinda upscale- dive-y, and has a happy hour deal where you get a shot of bourbon with your Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Basically, it screams Crigger.
Well played, Mr. Paul. Well played.
We got our drinks and grabbed a booth.
"I brought you a present." He says motioning to the reusable shopping bag he had placed in the booth beside him.
"A present? You didn't need to do that. But I do love presents!"
Hmmmm... present on a first date. What could it be. This will either be awesome or horrible. At least my Mother programmed me to always respond with unparalleled enthusiasm to a gift no matter what!
"Do you want it now?"
No, I would rather sit here wondering what it is for the next hour. Is it too soon for sarcasm...?
"Sure! I can't imagine what it might be."
"Well it is probably not something someone else has brought you. At least on a date." Paul says handing me the bag.
I peek inside the bag and there in all its Kentucky glory is a four-pack of Ale-8!
"Oh my goodness! Where did you find this?"
"A store near my house carries it. Have you been able to find it out here?"
"I actually know there is a distributor out here because another guy brought me a bottle." Whoops over-sharing. "But he wouldn't tell me where he got it. And I haven't made it to the distributor yet" I am still kind of aggravated about that by the way, Mr. Toad, formerly known as Mr. Butterflies!
"Oh, well there goes my hope of originality."
"No! This is great! I am out of my Ale-8 stock anyway! Thanks so much! This is going to be a great week!"
Paul and I chatted our way through normal first date talk.
Families.
Friends.
Work.
Hobbies.
Sports.
You know the drill.
And all was going well until he tried to hold my hand. The nerve!
My hands were folded, one on top of the other on the table. This is not the universal hold-my-hand-across-the-table-sign. (FYI...For those of you who don't know this sign it is a single hand rested mid-way between the two of you on the table. Clearly, I need to write a how-to book!)
But there he was trying to hold my hand!
Now, long time readers know I'm not crazy about being touched by people I don't know. A handshake isn't going to send me running for the Purell. The awkward side hug isn't going to have me changing clothing and washing in bleach.
My aversion to contact isn't about germs or sanitation or anything like that. I have eaten street food in India, swam in countless questionable bodies of water, had a drink with ice cubes in Vietnam. The list literally goes on and on. I am pretty sure my immune system can fend off whatever some random So-Cal boy has picked up on their hands between leaving their job at Disney and meeting me for a drink.
What I don't like about contact with people I don't know is the overly-familiar vibe of it.
I don't know you.
This is our first date.
Stop acting like we are a couple.
We aren't.
Get your hand back on your side of the table.
But of course saying that is a bit rude. And Paul had brought me Ale-8. But he has been handsomely for his efforts. I've sat at a table and talked to him for over an hour. Don't be getting greedy Paul!
So instead, I slowly pull my hand away and say, "Ummm... It might be too soon for that. I'm Southern after all."
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