We meet on Bumble which really should have been the first red flag. Guys probably only sign up because it forces the woman to make the initial move, amirite? Can they be any more passive-aggressive???
He has the gall to suggest we get together for a cup of coffee. Uh, I only drink tea. Eye roll.
When I inform him of this, rather than ask me for a list of my favorite tea rooms, he says the place he was thinking of serves both, and follows it up with a winking emoji. Wow. Smug much? Surprised I didn’t just ghost him after that.
Later that morning, he messages me with the name AND address of the place. Srsly, dude? Am I just a helpless little damsel in distress? Do you honestly think I don’t know how to plug a name into Yelp to find the address myself and give it to the Uber driver so she can enter it into Waze and Waze’ll tell her how to get me there? Un-be-lievable.
I love to knit. He knows this. I talked about it at length during our chat. But, I’m looking around and it’s pretty clear this neighborhood he’s sent me to only has two yarn stores. Sigh. I bet he’s not nearly as cute as his profile pic.
I get to the cafe. It’s like 100 years-old and there’s a slab of something called apfelstrudel on the marble countertop. Ewww. No way that’s vegan. I look at the tea menu – not a single Sumatran Oolong to be found. This guy really knows how to pick ‘em. Do I even bother staying? Feeling lightheaded, I focus on my breath.
For some reason, they’re playing classical music and the server says it’s called Haydn’s Cello Concerto #1. It’s actually kind of relaxing, so I google it and see it was written by some dude named Joseph Haydn. I google Joseph Haydn and see he was from Austria. I google Austria and see it’s next to Italy. Ok, cool. No, wait, this says it’s also next to Germany. Ummm, what? I google apfelstrudel. That’s German, too! I freeze. Holy shit. I’m in, like, a Nazi restaurant. Literally.
I look around and nobody is on their laptop. Andrew or Adolf or whatever the fuck the server’s name is says they don’t have WiFi because, “We want people to come here and decompress.” Excuse me? I bet that’s what they told ‘em at Auschwitz, too. I throw up in my mouth.
To calm down, I decide to perform a 10 minute ritual of quiet reflection before sipping my tea. I think about what I did over the weekend – a therapeutic past life regression workshop for combating sleep apnea. He’s probably going to force me to listen to what he did over the weekend – some trip out to Syosset for his niece’s 5th birthday party. OMFG. Guess what? I’m an only child! I don’t have any nieces! Will it occur to him for one second how painful it is for me to hear about that goddamn bounce house? I bet he doesn’t even ask me any follow-up questions to learn about all the other ways the sleep apnea epidemic is ravaging our country. He’ll just launch into a bunch of amusing little anecdotes about his own stupid shit. Doesn’t he realize I have a potentially fatal condition? Incredible. A year from now, I could be dead while he’s with his new coffee-drinking, store-bought scarf-wearing girlfriend at his Hitler Youth niece’s 6th birthday party. What an asshole.
He finally shows up and apologizes for being right on time. I don’t laugh. When I inquire as to why he was almost late, he sits down, smiles and produces a shopping bag from the Our Bodies, Ourselves Knitting Cooperative. Inside is a skein of magenta-colored worsted acrylic. I am speechless. Floored. Blown away. I cannot believe he did this. I mean, I only work in natural fibers. And, pink hats are soooo 2017….