If something is truly terrible, I will stick around in hopes that it gets even worse. This has left me with some good stories and a wholly undeserved reputation as a traveling freakshow. Really, my life is very dull. Except when I go on dates.
Back when I was still acquainted with my natural hair color, I met up with a boy for a drink. The bar was the sort where you catch tropical diseases from the furniture and stumble upon preppies groping in the water closet. But there was beer, a jukebox, and a cute boy, so I was very happy. Until, that is, he started talking.
His sexy opener was about his entire family disowning him. After an hour, I could sort of see their point. Then he talked about rediscovering Judaism. I have no idea how he lost it, world religions are much easier than housekeys to keep track of. Then he asked me about my religion (vaguely Methodist, but mostly Catholic by Association). Then, finally, the zinger:
“You’re attractive and all, but you’d be cuter if you were Jewish. Your looks make no sense otherwise.”
What? Six years later, I still don't know what that means. The closest I ever got to being Jewish was playing Laurie in a community theater production of Brighton Beach Memoirs. I felt terrible for disappointing him.
In fact, I felt so terrible that I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, but instead sidled up to the bar.
“Sir, I think this should cover my portion of the check. And if the gentleman in the booth asks, I’m still in the restroom.”
The bartender, who I am sure had witnessed his share of bad dates, said, “Oh, honey, I don’t blame you.”
I ducked out of the bar, ran the four blocks to the Metro, and never looked back.