Dinner Dates
Thanks for the offer, Mr. Chivalry, but I’ll pass. Aside from the fact that I don’t adhere to the three-square-meals-a-day mores, dinner dates are for Trixies and the 40-year-old I- bankers they met on Match.com (more accurately called “The Manhattan Meal-plan.”) There’s the awkward choosing of wine, the forced conversation between bites of bread, the smiley but uncomfortable, “Oh, I’m sorry, of course I ask you right as you take a bite,” the holding-up-of-one-finger as you furiously chew and swallow so you can respond, the stupid faces that come with biting and masticating, and of course, at some point you fucking flip your knife off the table and onto the floor and make a joke about it but actually want to die.
Better idea: Can we just get sorta wasted, sing “Stuck in the Middle With You” in that empty karaoke bar and then hold hands (premature intimacy! Score!) as we wander down Kent?
