The Perils of Mid-Life Dating

I'm not much of a dater. Like most skills, dating requires a certain amount of repetition in order to show improvement and comfort. The following story (which is completely true and includes absolutely no embellishment) may be a contributing reason why.

Jane (not her real name - which I honestly can't remember anyway) and I were set up by a mutual friend during the summer of 2012. Date #1 was a quick meet and greet over beers at Sweeney's in St. Paul, punctuated by easy banter in which neither of us had to carry the conversation. And even though both of us were probably thinking meh, we agreed to get together again the following week.

I arrived first at Crave or Flame or Fire. Something heat-related. Whatever that place is on Grand and Victoria in St. Paul's Highland Park neighborhood. Not being a big drinker, I nursed whatever craft beer was on tap and waited. Jane walked in 15 minutes later, flustered and out of breath.

After an obligatory apology, she grabbed (yes, literally) the bartender and asked for a martini or Cosmo (is there a difference?) or some other vodka-laced drink. After quickly concocting Jane's drink, he deftly poured it from his shaker into her glass, leaving the remainder for her to enjoy at her leisure.

Turns out her leisure lasted exactly 20 seconds. Gulping is how I would describe the disappearance of that first drink. "Okay," I thought, "let's have some fun."  The conversation quickly became as seamless as the week before, no real substance just mild flirting and laughter. After an hour of this I told myself that this wasn't such a bad way to pass an evening. No love connection, just decent company.

But by the time Jane finished the rest of her first shaker of something and had ordered another, I starting noticing that she was having trouble making eye contact. "So maybe she's actually nervous this time," I mused. Understandable - we had actually only known each other for a couple of hours. I assumed an awkward silence was descending. No biggie.

"You have a nice crotch."

"Sorry, what?"

"I said you have a nice crotch." Devilish grin.

Yup, you heard correctly. So did I. Twice. So that's what she's looking at. Seriously, I didn't think women did that.

"Umm, thanks - I guess." I never in a million years could have imagined that I would one day feel like saying to a woman Hey, my eyes are up here, but now was the moment.

Slightly silly Jane had morphed into drunk and embarrassing Jane. I spent the next hour being alternately propositioned and apologized to - sometimes in the same sentence. "I'm really sorry, I haven't eaten all day - but I'd love to eat you up - hehe." What? I don't even know what that means. Or, "God, I'm so ashamed, can I squeeze your leg?" I was in over my head.

So I began to feel bad for Jane. Eventually she spilled a glass of water on her pants (ooh, you wanna dry those off for me?) and fell off her barstool. Unfortunately, it was a busy Friday night. Everyone around her was looking at me. Do something, they seemed to be pleading.

"Listen, let's get you out of here (Baby, I thought you'd never ask). Do you need me to drive you home?"

I had never actually physically supported a drunk down the street before that night. It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Jane's legs would not function properly. They went left, they went right - but they could not go in anything resembling a straight line. She didn't seem to care. Both arms were draped around my neck as I vainly tried to steer her in the direction of my car. She mumbled and giggled the entire way, continuing her pattern of come-ons and I'm sorry's.

"This is mine," I finally said, jerking my thumb towards my waiting car. Turning back to her in anticipation of assisting a lifeless sack into the front passenger seat, I was greeted by her tongue pushed so far down my throat that I literally choked for air.

"Mmm, that was nice," she purred. No, I thought, that was awful - as bad as a kiss can get - worse actually than a person could realistically imagine. She leaned in for another and I deftly steered her toward the open car door. "That's enough. In you go."

Jane's apologies and mutterings petered out after a minute or two in the car. "Uh oh. Here we go," I thought. Looking over, I saw her head slumping against the window. "Are you going to be okay?" I asked. After a tell-tale burping hiccup, she mumbled, "I don't think so."

I hate throwing up. Even worse, I hate waiting to throwing up. The unpleasantness hasn't arrived yet, but I know it's coming soon, and it will be fierce.

Jane didn't have the luxury of time - and neither did my car. Within five seconds of my question the floodgates opened. Then they opened again. And then a third time. It was a stinking, wet, projectile-filled mess. While it was happening I could hardly believe it. "This is new," I mused. I should have been pissed or reacted angrily - I mean someone was vomiting in my car for Chrissakes - but my only thought was, "This is going to make a great story someday."

Naturally, Jane was mortified - though she was in no condition to express her embarrassment. Bile, vodka and something unknown with a bit of mass covered her shirt, pants and most of my passenger seat. Dignity and proper remorse? Not tonight. I stifled a giggle. Other people vomiting always makes me laugh.

Jane's dead weight (and some vomit) fell on me as I lugged her into her apartment. Immediately, the smell of puke was mixed with cat piss. Really? Upon seeing a stranger in their midst, I spied two balls of fur race for cover. After dumping Jane on the couch I helped myself to some cleaning products and an entire roll of paper towels. "I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you before I leave, okay?" No response.

Surreal was the only feeling that came over me as I liberally sprayed and scrubbed the seat, floor mats and door "clean." Yes, I concluded, this really had happened. Now for the quickest exit possible.

Jane was still laid out on her couch when I returned. I walked over to make sure she was still breathing. "I'm going to get going. Are you going to be alright?" The apologies tumbled out one after another. Talk of cleaning bills and second chances. I silently rejected both. "I'll understand if you don't want to see me again," Jane spewed, stating the obvious. Okay, thanks was all I could think to say. Seemed like a reasonable response to an unreal evening.

I wish I could say that it was at this point that I made a hasty retreat. But I'd be lying. I guess I have a soft spot for drunks. So I patted her back a few time and said, "It's fine Jane (or whatever your name is), no worries. I just hope you're okay in the morning," knowing full well she wouldn't. Rather than say anything, Jane tumbled off the couch, landing in some spittle she had produced while I had been cleaning and commenced with dry heaving. Oh, and the farting. Quite a bit of farting. Possibly even sharting. Sort of sounded like it. A low, low moment playing out in front of a complete stranger.

Okay, Eric - now you can leave.

I probably said Wow to myself at least a dozen times on the way home, replaying the two hour whirlwind over and over in my mind. My thoughts returned to - This is going to make a great story, and memory. Mine for the rest of my life. How many first or last dates are that memorable? I know Jane probably wouldn't say the same - but I hope she was able to look back at some point and laugh - at least a little. Probably not.

Best. Date. Ever.