The Date

Okay, as promised, here is the recap of my date with Lawyer Boy. I was scheduled to meet him for coffee on Sunday afternoon. Saturday, I went with some friends to a botanical garden. Very cool place, lots of flowers, trees, and other growy things. Had a great time, smelled tons of flowers. Sunday morning I wake up, roll out of bed, slip into my fuzzy leopard print slippers and shuffle to the kitchen for coffee. I pass a mirror in the hallway. I do a double take. Then scream. My entire face has swollen to almost twice its size! Apparently I’m highly allergic to one of the lovely flowers I sniffed yesterday. I look like a cartoon bee sting victim – my eyes are swollen shut, my nose looks like Marcia Brady’s after being hit by a football, and my lips, well, okay, my lips look like Angelina Jolie’s, which isn’t altogether a bad thing. But put all together and I look like Quasimoto. On a bad day. I forget the coffee, instead running upstairs for the medicine cabinet and downing a couple of antihistamine pills. I dump allergy drop sin my eyes, grab an ice pack and lay down, trying not to cry, because I know this will only make the swelling worse, as I weigh my options. Option #1: I can call Lawyer Boy and cancel, hoping he doesn’t think I’m blowing him off, and spend the afternoon in the emergency room with all the other people unlucky enough to get sick on a Sunday. Option #2: Throw on some distractingly high heels and thick eye make-up and go on the date anyway.

I get up and look in the mirror. The swelling is going down. Slightly. It’s not likely to get any worse and there’s no constriction to my airways. Medically speaking, I’m probably okay, just hideously disfigured while the allergen works it’s way out of my system. Okay, I can do this. I’m going on the date. Allergic reactions are a great ice-breaker, right?

Fast forward three hours (and many antihistamine pills) later. I arrive at the coffee shop early, apply another layer of mascara and find a dark-ish table to sit at while I wait for him to show up. He does. And he’s such a nice guy he doesn’t even mention my still slightly swollen face. Amazingly, he’s clean, well kept, intelligent. Very cute eyes – dark brown, lots of lashes. But, my attention is immediately riveted to his hair. And I’m not talking about the hair on his head. I’m talking body hair. Lots of it. Thick, black arm hair, leg hair, and (the factor that puts my squick radar on high alert) back hair peeking out the collar of his shirt. And I can’t help staring. I have to force myself to concentrate on what he’s saying because the hair is so distracting. As much as he seems like a nice guy, all I can think about is how he probably has to blow-dry his entire body every morning when he gets out of the shower.

The irony is not lost on me that I’ve spent the entire day worrying about looking like Stay Puff woman, only to be unable to get past his looks. But, there you have it. As much as I want to (and, trust me, I want to - he’s an intelligent successful attorney for crying out loud, how much more of a catch could he be?) I just can’t get past the hair. Generally, I don’t think of myself as a terribly shallow person, but after spending an entire day focused first on my looks, then on his, I’m starting to wonder. Please tell me I’m not the only one who would walk away from Lawyer Boy. One a scale of one to ten, when it comes to the opposite sex, how important are looks to you? Sadly, I'm ashamed to say it, but I think I'm hitting a nine.

~Trigger Happy Halliday