heavy lifter

I met Nate* at a friend’s birthday party a few years ago. He seemed like a cool enough guy, so we exchanged numbers. Every once in a while I’d get a random “let’s hang out” text from him, but at the time I lived upstate which was a 2.5 hour drive to Brooklyn, where he lived.

A year later, I was (finally) able to move back down to the city. So when he sent another “let’s hang out” text, I said sure.

He suggested we meet up after work at a mexican restaurant midway between both of our jobs. Apparently, they had really great happy hour margaritas. I’m not a big fan of liquor – more of a beer and wine girl – but he had me at Mexican. I can throw down on some nachos!

We walked into the restaurant and he asked to see a menu before being seated. After taking a quick look, he returned the menu to the hostess, turned to me and said:

Let’s go somewhere else, this place is a little too expensive.

I totally understand being broke in NYC – trust me. At the time I was at a freelance position and paying out the ass for my own Health Insurance. But if you plan a date with me and you pick the spot, make sure you can afford it before we get there. The menu is on the website, and he had been there before, so I figured he at least had an idea of the price range. But, I left it alone and was fine going somewhere else.

He said he knew somewhere in the area that had really good happy hour prices, so we decided to go there. He didn’t know the name of the place but swore it was ‘right around the corner’ so we decided to walk.

Now, I should mention that it was raining…and I had just straightened my hair the night before – a 2 hour process that I don’t take lightly. But I didn’t want to look like a Diva and I had an umbrella, so I agreed to walk.

Too bad he didn’t actually know where the hell we were going. Every block was ‘almost there’ until finally he admitted that he wasn’t sure exactly where it was. Or the name of it. We passed a few places that looked nice, but they didn’t have happy hours, so he didn’t want to go in.

sigh.

After walking for a good 20 minutes, we found a wine bar that had happy hour specials until 8. Score!

We sat down at the bar and ordered a couple of drinks and looked over the menu. At this point, I was starving. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and it was now 7 o’clock. I don’t function well hungry – and by that I mean I turn into a hungry hungry hippo, devouring anything that crosses my path. I figured I’d let him set the tone as far as food went, because he made such an ordeal about pricing and money, I wasn’t sure what he could afford. And he had asked me out, so I assumed he was paying.

That was my first mistake. NEVER assume.

The tone he set was two appetizers for us to split and plenty of wine. In fact, I was starting to realize why he was so obsessed with finding a place with happy hour specials. All he wanted to do was drink.

A couple of hours, a few glasses of wine (2 for me 4 for him) and 3 appetizers later, the bill came. I took out my wallet to be polite and offered my card.

Not only did he not turn down my offer, he SNATCHED the card out of my hand without saying a word, and told the bartender to ‘split it down the middle.’

What. The. F*cK.

Are you kidding me??? If I would have known we were splitting it, I would have ordered some damn dinner. My growling stomach was PISSED.

And I’m sorry…split it down the middle? He ordered everything without even asking me if I wanted it, AND he had twice as much alcohol as me.

I couldn’t wait to get home and eat a damn lean cuisine.

On our walk to the train (the rain had stopped) he started talking about the night we met, at my friend’s party.

You looked really nice that night, by the way.

Oh really? Thanks, ’cause I felt like a stuffed sausage in the dress I was wearing.

What? You’re crazy. You must weigh, what? 115?

Pff…yeah right, I wish. Try 140.

Yes, I realize I just put my weight on the internet.

What? No way. You don’t weigh 140.

Yeah…I do.

I don’t believe you, let me see.

Then, before I could stop him, he tried to pick me up…and he actually grunted. Like a long, strenuous, weightlifter grunt.

I.WAS.MORTIFIED

He then took a step back, scratched his chin and said:

Wait…let me try again.

And again he tried to lift me, ignoring my protests. This time the grunt was more like a roar. And again, I didn’t budge.

I could have cried.

Let me also say that this guy had no business trying to lift much of anything. He wasn’t much taller than me, and I wouldn’t exactly describe him as ‘built.’

He let me go, took a step back, and looked me over while scratching his chin pensively before saying:

Ok…maybe you do.

Wow.

To make matters worse, as soon as I got home I got a text from him that said:

Why didn’t I try to kiss you tonight?

Really?? That’s the one action of the night you question? Not trying to kiss me?? How about NOT paying for the date YOU asked me on? Or maybe NOT trying to lift me and making me feel like a fat ass because you couldn’t.

I’d say NOT trying to kiss me was the only thing he did RIGHT all night.

Dick.

*name as been changed because, even though this guy deserves it, I don’t want to completely embarrass him if his friend ends up reading this. I’m not that much of a Bitch. Yet.

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