The "Cliche' Knight"

For years I have enjoyed being involved with a number of community groups. While President of my roller derby league, I frequently met with various non-profit groups and civic organizations to partner with, or participate in their various events and activities.  Due to these experiences, I have forged a number of long term friendships with some of the great people who participate in these organizations.  One of the great friends that have come out of this participation is my friend Grant.

Grant and I have now been close friends for nearly 7 years. Due to the fact that he now knows me pretty well, I have been sharing the annals of my dating blog during our monthly lunches. As we were discussing my latest debacle on the dating front, his face lit up.

"Chris," he exclaimed, "I can't believe I didn't think of this before."

I sat there in cautious anticipation.  "Grant, what didn't you think of before?" I inquired.

"I can't believe that I never thought of setting you up with this kid I know," he responded.

I heard kid, and wondered where this was going. . .

"Yeah," he proclaimed.

"I can't believe that I didn't come up with this before.  I have this friend who's son I worked with, and I think that he may be a good fit for you. He's in his late 20s, but he has a good family, a job and his own car. I think that you might like him."

Now, I have known Grant for the better part of a decade. Grant is good people.  I felt that if Grant was going to vouch for this guy then he was something pretty special.

Grant mentioned that perhaps we could all go to a happy hour together.  I thought this was a great idea. I could do the group first-date-thing, and hopefully get all the awkwardness out of the way with Grant as the cushion.

Grant and I wrapped lunch and he promised he would produce a point of contact for this amazing potential-Knight for me.  I bid him farewell and awaited my conduit for contact with this mystery Knight. Not that there was any pressure already, my friend Grant rang me shortly after lunch. He informed me that if this mystery Knight and I were to get married that he wasn't going to accept fish being served at the wedding. I promised that if we did reach the nuptial phase that there would be a steak in Grant's future.

Is it sad that in looking at all the wedding reception photos this excited me the most?

Two days went by, and then I was contacted by this would-be Knight.  The Knight text me that he had gotten my number from my friend (I had consented to my phone number being dolled out), and was reaching out in the hope that we could set up a meeting.

As fate would have it both Grant and my Knight had to work on the night that I had wanted to attend happy hour. To try to make the situation with my Knight work,  I offered to meet this new Knight one evening after my night job: he agreed this would work.

I text Grant and let him know that this new Knight and I would be getting together for drinks in the middle of the week instead of our proposed happy hour. Grant wished me well, and wanted me to to make sure of two things: 1. That I call him afterward to make sure I was OK and fill him in as to the details of the date and 2. Make sure that my Knight was to pay for whatever we did.

I have good people looking out for me :)

My Knight suggested that we go to a place near where he used to work. I had never been to this Cloverleaf bar, but had heard that they had amazing craft beer, so I agreed this would be a great destination. I scheduled the date to be at 10pm to allow for me to have a busy night at work, (I hoped) and still not be running terribly late all shiny and stinky from bar tending.

The night of my date, as fate would have it, my night job was terribly slow.  I was cut at roughly 7:30pm and text my Knight to see if we could move our date from 10pm to 9pm  He agreed and I began to drive over to our meeting place. 

I had thrown on a pair of white pants, sandals and a pretty flowy iridescent blue shirt while I was at work. The girls at work had all given the outfit approval and the boys gave me the wink and nod, and I felt that I was ready to rock.

I arrived in Caldwell tremendously earlier than I had expected. I took this opportunity to stop get gas, buy gum and then park my car and scroll through my Pinterest for a while.  During this time my Knight text me to inform me that he would be running about a half hour late. Thank God for Pinterest.  I sat in the car till he text me that he arrived. I told him that I would meet him in front of the restaurant.  I was concerned that with the bustling restaurant full of people that it would be a challenge to find him. 

Up to this point he had only sent me a Facebook picture via text.  In this picture he was wearing a plaid shirt, jeans and had his thick black hair was styled neatly.  He looked like your average 20 something guy who shopped for clothes based upon a mannequin in the store. From the shot that he sent, he looked like a large, strapping man.  From the picture it looked like he had a broad, muscular body (that I could make out under his shirt) and appeared to be well over 6 foot from the way the picture was shot. I can recall my girl friend and I looking at the picture and both of us commenting that he looked like a huge guy. 

When I showed up in front of the restaurant there was a man with dark black hair standing outside.  He looked like the man in the text picture. He had dark black hair slicked back, jeans, sneakers and an Affliction shirt on. As he walked towards me I realized that he wasn't that much taller than me but his muscles were enormous in his chest and arms. Wow. This man had a serious commitment to working out! He hugged me hello and we proceeded inside.

He opted to get us a table in the back of the restaurant rather than us sitting in the loud crowded bar. I appreciated this, because the last thing I want to do during my non-working time is be bumped by drunk people at a bar. 

We sat down and when the waitress inquired what we were having to drink I was excited at the prospect of sampling one of their fine craft brews.  I looked across the table and inquired what this Knight would be drinking. He proceeded to look at the waitress and tell her he was OK with water.  

Now in the past, when I only had a water, not even a soft drink, this meant that this was going to be a brief date and I didn't really want to be there.  This was not a good start. 

I asked if he was sure he didn't want anything to drink at all. He said he was in training, so he shouldn't, but I should feel free to have one. 

The waitress was stuck in the middle of this back and forth, so to make her life less difficult and not seem like we were just going to sit at a table and drink water all night, I ordered a Stoli Blueberry and club soda.  This looked like water?

As the waitress walked off, the awkward silence had set upon us.  To try to get the conversation going, I asked how he got to know our mutual friend Grant.  He proceeded to tell me the same story that Grant had told me about how they met. Silence again.

I asked him about how he got involved with his job and if he liked his work as a fire fighter.  He told me that he really enjoyed his work, and felt that he had chosen the right career path.  I continued to ask him about his work, how he trained to get the position and what it was like working in a job that could be a life or death scenario daily.  He answered all my questions and then that strange silence creeped in again. 

I was beginning to feel like someone who's parents had set them up with a co-workers son who I had nothing in common with.  I even felt like perhaps he was just forging along with this date to appease our friend.  There was 0 chemistry. 

Out of the blue he blurted out, "so how old are you anyway?"

Oh Jesus.  

What is it with 20-something year old men always asking a woman's age.  When I was younger,  I was raised with the belief that men shouldn't ever ask your age, and now, these days, it rolled off their tongue in the same way they ask you if you are DTF.  What happened to class and cooth? Clearly I had been down this road before.  

"35," I responded.  "Truthfully, there's not much I can do about it."

"Oh, that's OK," he blurted out.  "It's cool."

And so was the conversation once again.  

"So how is your summer going?" I inquired trying to determine if we should just both bail out now or continue with this seemingly forced event.

He told me it was going well. He and his buddies had spent the summer in Seaside going to Bamboo, DJai's and Headliners. 

Anyone who is from NJ is now, hopefully, giggling at this blog entry. Anyone who is not, can click on the links and get an understanding of why they are giggling. 

I told him I was more of a Parker House or Boathouse sort of girl. 

Again. Crickets.

This time he asked me if I was Italian. I said yes, and said I guessed he was too. He was impressed that I knew he was.  I told him it was something about the large, gold, chain with a large, gold, crucifix on it gave me a hint.  

At this point I had managed to suck down my Stoli and club in my VFW hall size glass and began the mental chess game of, do I tell him I am going to get going, or do I stay to see how this goes. 

The waitress immediately attended to us.  We were the last people in the restaurant.  As someone who has worked in the service industry all throughout my life I can tell you, we were the dreaded last table. 

I figured we were packing it in for the night.  I think I even began to do the 'I'm pulling my stuff together and putting my napkin on the table to go' routine.  

He then decides that he is going to have a Red Bull and vodka.  Curious choice, but, OK. He tells me that he guesses it's OK to have a drink. He offers for me to have another.  

Well, he's already ordered his, and I am intrigued that he is looking to continue on with this date.  

"Sure, I'll have another," I tell the waitress.  

I can nearly feel her angst for us emanating off of her being.  Just as she goes to walk away she goes to grab the katsup off the table, probably to  refill it for her side work.  As she reaches for it, he immediately grabs the katsup and tells her, "No, wait.  We're using this."

He giggles and then says "nah, it's cool" to her. I'm mortified. 

For those of you who have never been in the service industry, the last thing that you want at the end of your shift is someone chilling at your table, drinking water till all hours of the night and then thinking they are hilarious when you attempt to do the few things you can do to to wrap up your night. 

I make my 'I don't really know him' face at her and she walks away with a smile that's almost as genuine as my desire to be there. 

"So Grant tells me that you travel a lot.  You ever get out to Vegas?" he asks.

We share our stories of Vegas night clubs, VIP service and DJs we loved.  I tell him that Vegas is the halfway meeting point for my Australian friends and I, and what a blast we have when we go.  He tells me about the pool parties and palatial diggs he scores when he stays out there.  The conversation is actually flowing now. 

This year our alter egos were Miss Australia (middle), her stylist (far left), her best friend (polka dots), I was her  PR person and far right was her manager.  It was like an Australian Entourage. 

I ask where else he has traveled to and he tells me AC.  I share that I was recently there for the opening of Margaritaville at Resorts and he tells me about Murmur and a few other night clubs I have not been to there. 

We talk about our big Italian families and how crazy the holidays are.  He shares that he lives at home with his parents where his mother does his cooking, cleaning and laundry.  His down time is spent at the gym and off nights at various clubs in NJ like 46 Lounge and Jenks. 

I realize more and more we are from two different worlds. I think he does too. 

He's sweet, and kind, and is a good listener.  He's got a great job and a great family, two qualities I think are important.  He's a good looking man, but there's just something that isn't clicking for either one of us.  

We've now finished our drinks and the waitress drops the check.  He offers to pay, and on Grant's advice I agree to this.  I thank him for being such a gentleman, because, truly, he was.  He and I walk out to the parking lot to say our goodbyes.  I thank him for a lovely evening. He offers to go have a few more drinks over at the Ringside, but I decline because it is nearly midnight and well, I've had a long day and I'm tired.  I tell him to have a drink for me and enjoy the rest of his night off.  

He tells me he'll be in touch. I know he won't and neither will I. Kind of thing where if we ran into each other at Corrados we would say "hi" and maybe see how the other was, but I don't see us out painting the town together. 

As he walked towards his tinted out, shiny rimmed Mustang parked in the parking lot, I had to giggle. If I hadn't already been writing this blog with it's Greek tragedy conga line of stories already, no one would have believed me.

The "Inadvertent" Knight

So one of my blog dates cancels on me and it’s a Saturday night. I am kind of pissed because that was  my plan for a Saturday night off but, well, what can you do. People are unreliable and I think perhaps he did me a favor. (Future blog date: The Catfish Knight)

I decide that I am going to still have dinner out and watch a hockey game to make the most of this debacle.  I head over to Bonefish Grill with the desire to have a great piece of fish and a martini while I watch the Devils play.

I arrive just as the game is starting and surprisingly there are very few people at the bar. I make my way over to a seat and settle in. I ask the bartender for a Stoli dirty martini and I begin perusing the menu while I am trying to keep an eye on the game.

“This isn’t so bad,” I think to myself. I will have a peaceful, healthy dinner and get to watch my boys in red kick the Sabres asses.  Win win!

As I am perusing the menu a man sits down next to me.  He has dark hair, a mustache, olive colored skin and is probably in his late 40s.  He kind of reminds me of Eugene Levy.  I gotta let you know, I am not hot for Eugene Levy.

He asks if anyone is sitting next to me and I let him know that no one is.  He then sits down and begins chatting with the bartender. They know him at this bar, and he seems to be a regular. I am hoping he doesn’t want to talk to me. It’s a full moon out and I just have this theory that all the looney tunes come out on these nights (er go why I am out).  I just want to have my dinner, have my drink, watch the game and go home. Period.  The end.

And here it comes . . . Just when I think that I am going to get my wish, the full moon unleashes its fury.

 “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have someone keeping them waiting, ” Eugene Levy look-alike tells me.

I nod and smile in his general direction, as if to say, “Please, I beg of you, leave me alone.”

He doesn’t get this.

He continues on.  “So is he running late?”

Fuck. I am really gonna have to talk to this man.

At this point I feel the chair on the other side of me get pulled out and someone sits down.  Please let this be Alexander Skarsgard sitting on the other side so I can just run off into the night with him.

So if anyone knows him, and can let him know I'm single, we can stop all this crazy blog. 

 It’s not.

It’s a single dude, also probably in his late 40s, wearing a leather jacket, a black shirt, black pants and has about as much hair as Nero. He looks like a Russian arms dealer (whatever your individual mental image of this may be; yes). He smiles and cocks an eyebrow at me as he sits down.

I am now stuck between the Devil and the deep blue sea.

I turn to Eugene Levy and tell him that I am just dining solo because my boyfriend couldn’t make it out tonight. This should buy me some silence from both parties, I think.

He orders something off menu and it sounds amazing. I try to inquire with the bartender what it is.  Instead he tells me it’s on the website but not on the menu. I am intrigued with this and begin feverishly combing the Internet for this offer. He’s now looking on his phone. Dammit.   

This has opened up the conversation floodgates.

Mr. Levy now wants to know why my boyfriend is not here, and how he could let me out alone on a Saturday night. I make the mistake of telling him my fictitious boyfriend is young and unaccountable. 

“How young,” he asks. 

I now need to pick an arbitrary number, but one that will deter him from thinking he has a shot.

“28,” I lie. Hey, he’s my fictitious boyfriend.

“So if he’s 28, how old are you?” he asks.

Jesus, is this man writing a book? What happened to not asking a woman her age??

“35,” I respond because well, I am, and proud of it.

“Oh you’re a cougar? Huh?”

We discuss cougars in the last blog post. 

WTF. This makes me mad. I am kind of getting sick of hearing this. I feel that it’s pretty rude. I wouldn’t think of telling him he’s having some sort of mid-life crisis if roles were reversed. I am dating down. Men have done this for centuries. What am I, some sort of trailblazer for those dating with a few years spread? So they are born in the 90s. Who cares?? My mother is older than my father. I have always dated younger men. It’s not like I’m hanging out at a high school football game taking home the quarterback. This incenses me. I feel liberated to now retaliate . . .

“Why am I a cougar? I’m not dating a child, and the age spread isn’t that great. You men do this all the time and there is no negative connotation, so why is it when I do it, I have a negative stigma attached to it.”  I’m nearly out of breath I am so wound up. 

If you don’t know why, read the previous blog.

I look over to the black leather jacket Nero guy and he’s snickering. He realizes that his competition is tanking and it seems like being a fly on the wall for this.   

Eugene then responded,  “Well you are a Cougar.”

“Dude,” I think to myself, “this is why you are alone at a bar on Saturday night.”

I am exasperated. I guess this dude gets that I am done with him probably because I have now nearly turned my back entirely to this man. I am now intently staring at the TV where the game is on, and I am trying to appear totally engaged and fixated on the Geico commercial. 

Keep in mind now, I have not even received my main at this point. I am still working my way through my salad, and because it’s a busy Saturday night, I know my entrée isn’t showing up anytime soon. F.

I try to throw myself into viewing the game. I am going to ignore more awkwardness if it kills me. 

I look to my left. The man in the leather jacket is there.   He is still awakrdly sitting there half watching the game, half watching his food. Not a good candidate for a chat. I am already neck deep in weirdness.

I fixate on the hockey game. The man next to me hasn’t responded since my Hiroshima Cougar attack.  My main arrives and I delve into my lobster and scallops.  I want to want my meal but I have been so God damned hot today I can hardly eat. 

The man next to me takes the butter warmer candle that comes with my meal and puts it between the two of us. I think that this is either a peace offering, or an attempt to make this more like a date. Either way, this is still neck deep in weirdness. 

You too can have a date with a complete stranger at a bar. Just add a candle. 

“Here you go,” he smiles at me. “It’s like we’re on a date.”

WHAT THE CHRIST. CAN’T I JUST EAT MY MEAL IN PEACE?

I immediately put the butter back on the open flame and fain interest in dipping my scallops in the butter. I throw back a butter-covered scallop.  This is now not even turning out to be the healthy meal I so craved!

I’m now not even interested in the food. I just want to leave now. But there is only 8 minutes left in the 3^rd period. If I leave now, I will miss the end of this nail biting game.  If I stay, Eugene Levy may try to start feeding me my dinner.

I decide that I am willing to risk a few more minutes of this awkward dining experience to not miss the rest of the game. I still have a few sips of my martini left and I imagine that this is as bad as it’s going to get.

Oh no. It can always get worse. And it did.

At about this 8-minute mark other trouble was a brewing.

I had watched them come in and debate over where to sit. They were an older couple, probably retired. He was kinda of Irish drunk red, and she was beaming so they must have been coming from somewhere where alcohol had been served.

They sit down one seat over from Eugene. I can see them surveying the landscape. The look intentely at Eugene, then me and then Eugene again. They then look over at the Russian arms dealer. They seem to be huddled in conversation. I don’t really know or care what they are talking about, because I am trying to focus on the game.

The couple now emerges from their secret conversation and seems to be focusing their attention in my direction.  I quickly look back to the TV. 

“Look engrossed in the game.  Look engrossed in the game,” is all I can think to myself. 

No sooner to I turn my attention to this action packed game but I hear from a few chairs over; “How long have the two of you been dating.”

I feel like she is speaking to me, but why would she ask if we were dating. I make like haven’t heard the question.

Eugene however turns to her and responds that we are not dating.

“Why?” she asks.

Really lady?? This can’t be happening to me.

Roughly 5 minutes left in the game and I just wanna watch the end of the game.

“You make such a lovely couple,” she coos.

“You think so?” Eugene asks her. 

He then turns to me. “She thinks we make a good couple,” he tells me with pride.

Oh great Scott.

I make a weak smile at him and am now staring at the game like my life depends on it.

“Why don’t you ask her out?” says this woman in her lovely English accent.

"She has a boyfriend,” Eugene replies.

“And he’s 28 and she’s a cougar so she won’t want to go out with me.”

The Queen Mum then replies, “well she doesn’t know what she wants.”

Hello?? WTF. I am still sitting here.

“And you over there,” the English woman shouts to the Russian arms dealer. “You don’t want him to ask her out because you want a shot at her.”

He looks as confused as I do.  When did this turn into a soap opera. There is now 2 minutes in the game. I just want out of here.

I grab the bartender’s attention.

“I need a to-go box and the bill please,” I tell her. I have already slogged back the remainder of my martini. 

I get the bill and I notice it’s way more than I expected. Did they put an embargo on my Stoli? I read the itemized menu and notice that they have Eugene and I on the same tab.  Oh Jesus. Even the bartender thinks that we are together.

“Um, miss,” I call to her. “I think that his food was put on my bill by accident.”

“Oh, I thought  you two were together.”

HUH??????

I shake my head vehemently NO and quietly pay my bill while Eugene is deep in conversation with the Brit and the red dude. 

I gather my to-go and my purse and catch the last glimpse of the last seconds of the game.  I think I am getting away Scott-free.

Eugene immediately turns from talking to the couple who have alerted him that I am leaving. “Go get her,” I hear the crazy English lady cry out.

“Would you like to go get a drink?” he asks me as I am gathering my things.

I tell him I have plans and thank you for offering. I just want to get home, lock my door and wait for this crazy full moon to go away. 

I walk out and I can still hear the English woman carrying on about how “she’s young and she’ll learn soon enough.”

Yes lady. I have learned to stay home when there’s a full moon. 

The "Professional Dater" Knight

Prelude: At this point of the blog: my family thinks I need psychiatric help and my friends regard this as better than TMZ. 

I am thinking that re-devoting myself to my career and publishing this as my first book because I am nearly convinced I am NEVER going to meet anyone like this. Story time. . .

While doing my weekly check-in on my inbox on the dating site, I came across an email from a guy that had a GREAT smile.  I am talking, I think that guys teeth twinkled at me through the picture. Game show host quality smiling. I read his intro email and it showed he had actually read my profile. He talked about being a fellow entrepreneur and traveler, and he encouraged me to look at his profile. Very LinkedIn of him.

Good smile, but totally not someone I would date.

Of course I then went and stalked his page. (Is it stalking if the assumption is that you will take up the invite to stalk?)

He had standard issue stats:  5'10, career in marketing, looking for a relationship, father, entrepreneur, nearby resident, into health and fitness, divorced. OK. Requirements of not living at home, has job, not married and dating, writes in full sentences, seems interested in me and didn't write a form letter as an intro, check. He makes the cut.

I sent him a message back talking about traveling and asking about his companies. He then writes back and asks if I wanted to have dinner with him to discuss any of these questions further.

I have now gotten much more expeditious with this dating thing. I started this blog MONTHS ago with the hopes of banging this out in a month. I am now nearly 8 MONTHS in. Nearly another full year of my life!!! You know that I am saying yes.

He sends me his number, and tells me to text him to confirm the day before a date we loosely agreed on. I get totally harried with my week, and forget to text him the day before, because I am hair brained like that. Since we have not confirmed, I assume that we are not meeting and I text him the day we had  originally specced to meet when I realize that I have missed the prior day's deadline.

He sends back this text saying that he's at the restaurant by himself. He texts he's never been stood up before.

Wait, what the hell? I scroll back through the texts. I didn't agree to a place or a time. . .What the hell is this man talking about?

I send back: "Being stood up would imply that we had landed on a place and a time. I don't see that. Did I miss something?"

He sends back that he is just joking, but I can buy the first round of drinks because I moved the date. I don't agree, but tell him I am willing to reschedule. He asks if we can reschedule for the weekend. I agree, put it on my calendar and am still baffled by the previous texts. Whatever.

He tells me he will text me later with options on where to go.  I feel that even if we don't have chemistry to date, he seems like a pretty interesting business person, and if all else fails, we have our work to talk about.

He offers Roots, or Urban Table. I choose Roots because I haven't been there in AGES. Keep in mind, Roots is a steak house. I ask what time, and he tells me our reservation is at 8.30pm.

This is the first man who has made a reservation for dinner and only the third man I am having dinner with.  Yes folks, this is what the fish bowl is like these days. . .

He suggests that we meet at the bar at 8pm for a drink, and then head to our table. I agree. I see what he is doing though. . .If it sucks having drinks, or he wants an out, he can bail before dinner. I would do the same. Touche.

He then sends me this odd text:  "And I don't  eat red meat."

Strange. Why would one pick a steak house then. My dreams of a lovely Porterhouse, great wine and great conversation have been squashed. I wonder what he's going to eat? Why do I care? Whatever, not my problem.

The day of our date I arrive just before 8pm.  The bar keep clears a place for me at the bar amongst the throngs of patrons. I thank him and order myself a Stoli, dirty martini. Two can play the half hour game.

I text him that I am sitting at the bar wearing jeans and a black shirt.

All of a sudden my Knight is standing next to me and immediately slinks into the seat that is available to my left. He is as attractive in person as he was in his pictures. You can tell he works out and he is dressed well in his pressed, black button down shirt and jeans.

He orders a Tito's and club soda and gets settled in. He sort of busts my chops about moving the dates, but I brush it off and tell him how "happy I am to be here today."

He begins by talking about his work in the health services industry and how he got his start building his empire. He is quite accomplished and he is very eloquent. He is exceptionally engaging and probably kills it at business development. He's a great conversationalist.  He asks me about my work in marketing and for the first time on pretty much any of these dates, the man totally and fully understands what I do for a living. I am impressed.

The maître d' stops by us at the bar to tell us that our table is ready. The bartender asks if we are going to transfer our tab to the table. I tell them that is is fine and leave a cash tip.  My Knight then tells them that he doesn't want to transfer it to the table. I say OK and reach into my wallet to get out my money to pay for my drink. My Knight then looks over at me, says "thanks," and walks off towards the table.

I guess he did get his free drink on me after all.

When I arrive at the table he is standing there waiting for me talking to the waiter. Seems he is a regular. I am a bit ticked that I just plunked down nearly $30 for the drinks. This was going to severely cut into my personal steak budget.  Dang.  Now I am at a steakhouse and I'M not eating steak. WTF?

As I turn to sit down I notice that I TOWER over this man. He is not only shorter than me, but think middle school dance girl boy height ratio difference.  Awesome.  5'10 my ass.

I re-compose myself, and for whatever reason decide I am going to stay for dinner.  Probably because I am starving and well, I am one of these people that always hope for good to come out of situations even if it looks bleak.

He orders a Caesar salad and a mac and cheese side and a glass of wine. My budget has me now down to a tomato salad. I am assuming I am paying for at least my dinner and have embraced this.  However, I now have no budget picking up his dinner as well as mine. Not happening.

We chat through dinner about his work, my work and then we begin to discuss the topic of dating. He tells me of the many, many dates he has been on. How he can tell if someone is into him or not, how he usually dates early 20somethings, how some of the dates have been complete disasters. I agree that dating is a real challenge and ask him about his worst date. The conversation continues like this, and I realize that this man may actually have been on, as many, if not more dates than me! I am fascinated by the stories and we carry on like this for a while. We wrap up dinner and decide against dessert. He is a charming man, but seems to be happy dating and lying about his height. No worries, just not for me.

He offers to pick up dinner and I thank him. This was a lovely gesture.

He walks me to the door and I tell him that I will find my way to my car. We sort of nod to each other good night in a very business-like fashion and head our separate ways. As "professional daters" we both know that this is the end of the line.

As I arrive back my car, I realize that, after quite a bit of digging,  I don't have Svetlana's key. Usually it is buried in some nook in my bag, but tonight the car key is gone. Legit.

I am in monstrous heals and am dreading the three block walk from my parking space BACK to the restaurant.  As I get a few steps into the restaurant I walk right smack into my Knight. We look at each other quizzically.

"I think my key fell out of my coat pocket during dinner," I stammer.

"I had to go to the bathroom," he replies.

Neither of us have unscrewed the shock on our faces at this point though.

I begin to head towards the booth we were sitting in hoping I won't have to ask some poor person if I can crawl under their table. Thankfully there is no one there. I crawl all over the floor while the staff shines phones and my Knight jockeys chairs. No success.

The search party now carries over to the bar, which has significantly cleared out. Thank God. This is just awkward enough without digging under more chairs.

As I walk over the bar keep smiles at me. He asks me if I am looking for "this," as he holds up my car key. Turns out the sucker escaped into the crevasse in the chair I was sitting in, and the guy sitting next to me found it in my chair when I stood up.  I thank him and the Knight and I begin heading for the door for the second time tonight.

Again, he offers to walk me to my car, I politely decline. It's like Groundhog Day with my date. I say goodnight and wave as I wander off.  I meander back to my car, feet aching. As I stare up at the moon, just to check if it's full or not,  I again question why it is I am doing this.

If everyone says that you meet someone when you are not looking, maybe I should really stop looking. Or do I believe that everything does, in fact, happen for a reason. Hence the reason I am trying to stick out this thirty date endeavor is because this is what needs to happen. I don't know. Each day I seem to feel differently. The dating has been 80% terrible with the two exceptions: it has given me a lot of perspective and this has provided me the ability to learn that, perhaps, I can write.

I hop in my car, throw on my flip flops and drive home to my sanctuary on the hill.  I try to author my text message farewell to this evening's Knight, but I end up falling asleep watching Real Housewives of Atlanta.

I awake the next morning and see no signs of him having text. Well, I feel I am absolved from messaging. Super!

At lunchtime the text comes in. He had a great time, and maybe we could do it again, but not at a steak place. I send back that I had a great time and hope he has a great week. Nebulous and polite. I believe that the professional dater will be able to take the hint.