More Scylla than Charybdis, or how to not get asked on a second date

A couple weeks ago I went on a first date. I know at this point you're like, oh, for Pete's sake, Lis, how many effing posts can you start this way? And do you ever have second dates?

That, my friends, is the question, isn't it?

I had a perfectly nice time with him. He was cute, and big and tall. His only drawback was that he was just slightly delicate - not prancy, just delicate - which is what prompted the conversation with Jen about delicate vs. oafish, and to what degree you might prefer one over the other.

We had easy conversation, except when I said that one of my versions of hell would be to have to do something like hike the Appalachian Trail. Because if I am going to be that uncomfortable and have to camp, it has to be somewhere fascinating, like Nepal. Not somewhere like Appalachia.

This I said to a man who, it turns out, is from West Virginia. And annually camps on the Appalachian Trail.

Ugh. Prying Foot! Out! Of! Mouth! Very difficult with platform shoes on!

But overall, I did have a nice time. He seemed to as well.

This is what I said the next day when Bob asked. And then Bob laughed at my response and said, "So you never want to see him again, huh?"

"What? I said I had a nice time!"

"No. You said, 'I had a nice TIIIMME with him.' Time should not be the most strongly emphasized word in the sentence."

Oh.

So, anyway. I wondered if The Slightly Delicate was one of those things, like someone's voice, or their teeth, that I ought to learn to look past, to see if I could adore the person within. So in the spirit of "accept another date unless you're repulsed" I would have gone out with him second time. Just to see if he might grow on me.

And then he didn't ask me out again.

And so, as I was catching up with Jen, she asked if I thought it was the fact that I denigrated the camping experience of the Appalachian Trail that made him not ask me out again.

And I said that in retrospect, it probably had more to do with the book.

Because, you see, I had said that I love to write, that it's something I do for pleasure, and something I spend a good deal of my free time on. And when he asked what I write, I said that I'm working on a book. Which is true.

He asked, "What's it about? What kind of book?"

"Oh, well, me. A memoir of sorts."

"You're writing a memoir?"

"It's just one of those people telling their slightly odd story kind of memoir. More sort of funny, kind of nutty, vignettes."

"I hope it's more David Sedaris than Running With Scissors."

It turns out he meant this jokingly. I realize this is not exactly tantamount to saying "Gee, I hope it's more Scylla than Charybdis" - but still, I could've said it was far from both. Except that I in all honestly, couldn't.

And so, when I said, "Welllll, it's probably somewhere in between. . ."

Slightly delicate man was a little alarmed.

Note to self: Have on hand the titles of a couple of fairly innocuous memoirs. Or learn to lie and say you're writing fiction.