I've wrecked my brains on this one, and the sad truth is, I can't find a single topic that inspires me to amuse you. I've run dry. I don't know if it's writer's block, but i can't seem to put two words together to form a sentence. So I've decided to go back in time, salvage a story from the past that is not tainted by my currently notorious anger/bitterness towards men. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the first date. Uncensored, and 100% based on true events.
New York, May 2008. I had never been on a date before in my life. Not because I never dated anyone, I just thought actual "dates" where more of an American movie type of thing... but then again, I had lived in New York for two years and I had never been asked on a date. Anyway, this was my first time.
Some background: I was a freelance journalist working in Manhattan, and writing an article about successful Lebanese businessmen. One of my interviews was over the phone with a Certain Fellow who was 38 years-old, huge success story, millionaire and what-not, and so obviously single. It's funny how these men who are obsessively career driven for twenty years wake-up at the eve of their fortieth birthday and sweat the fact that they are all alone. Anyway... this man who was across the world in Dubai asks me if he can take me out to dinner when he comes to New York a few weeks later. And I, feeling a little Carrie Bradshaw style, being a writer in Manhattan and all, got carried away by the thought... maybe he was my Mr. Big?
Three weeks later, the Certain Fellow arrives in New York, ready to dine me and wine me. We meet up at the Four Seasons hotel, and I recognize him from the picture he sent me for the article. Except he is wearing a leather jacket and trying to act hip although he is hitting 40, and he looks it... I tell myself this will be an interesting experience. We are chauffered down in a limo to a new hip restaurant in Tribeca. I was nervous I could hardly breathe, so, of course, I downed the first drink he offered me as we waited for a table. What the hell are first dates all about anyway? For this man, apparently, it was an audition for finding himself a suitable wife. Did I cook? Did I love Beirut? Where would I want to live? I wasn't sure if I felt dizzy by the vodka or his questions. We were seated on a corner table, on a bench, which means we were right next to each other --awkward. By the time the main course came, I had had three drinks and my cheeks were feeling numb. He asked me to tell him something about myself. I told him a had written a book when I was 13. He asked me what it was called. I told him, "I believe in angels." He looked into my eyes, and uttered the single, cheesiest, most cringing line anyone has ever tried: "Now I believe in angels..." (did you gag yet?)
I kid you not. These were his words. I was so tipsy I think I burst out laughing, and he took it as a good sign, leaned over and kissed me. I ordered another drink. He was in a hurry to get the bill. I saw him take out his black credit-card, and laughed silently, remembering my roommate who had warned me I would see a black-credit card with this guy.
The ride back in the limo is a little blurry --there was some making out, I'm sure, because we ended up back at the Four Seasons, which is definitely not where I lived.
Now I know I said uncensored, but I will spare you some details. The bottom line is, I was beyond tipsy, I fell asleep on a super comfortable bed in a suite in one of the biggest hotels in New York, and there was one Certain Fellow who was fairly disappointed by the failed magic of his black card.
I woke up slightly confused about where I was. It was 7am, and the Certain Fellow was back in business mode, on the phone and typing emails and getting dressed all at once. I put on my heels, dreading the walk of shame I had ahead of me.
And as a grand finale, just as I stepped out of the Four Seasons, with the trailer of my own movie playing in my head, I tripped. I fell, at 7 in the morning, on the steps of the grandiose hotel, in front of all the concierges, valets, and taxi drivers passing by, wearing a mini black dress and high heel shoes.
And I smiled, because I could think of no better way to end this excruciatingly cliche moment of my life.
New York, May 2008. I had never been on a date before in my life. Not because I never dated anyone, I just thought actual "dates" where more of an American movie type of thing... but then again, I had lived in New York for two years and I had never been asked on a date. Anyway, this was my first time.
Some background: I was a freelance journalist working in Manhattan, and writing an article about successful Lebanese businessmen. One of my interviews was over the phone with a Certain Fellow who was 38 years-old, huge success story, millionaire and what-not, and so obviously single. It's funny how these men who are obsessively career driven for twenty years wake-up at the eve of their fortieth birthday and sweat the fact that they are all alone. Anyway... this man who was across the world in Dubai asks me if he can take me out to dinner when he comes to New York a few weeks later. And I, feeling a little Carrie Bradshaw style, being a writer in Manhattan and all, got carried away by the thought... maybe he was my Mr. Big?
Three weeks later, the Certain Fellow arrives in New York, ready to dine me and wine me. We meet up at the Four Seasons hotel, and I recognize him from the picture he sent me for the article. Except he is wearing a leather jacket and trying to act hip although he is hitting 40, and he looks it... I tell myself this will be an interesting experience. We are chauffered down in a limo to a new hip restaurant in Tribeca. I was nervous I could hardly breathe, so, of course, I downed the first drink he offered me as we waited for a table. What the hell are first dates all about anyway? For this man, apparently, it was an audition for finding himself a suitable wife. Did I cook? Did I love Beirut? Where would I want to live? I wasn't sure if I felt dizzy by the vodka or his questions. We were seated on a corner table, on a bench, which means we were right next to each other --awkward. By the time the main course came, I had had three drinks and my cheeks were feeling numb. He asked me to tell him something about myself. I told him a had written a book when I was 13. He asked me what it was called. I told him, "I believe in angels." He looked into my eyes, and uttered the single, cheesiest, most cringing line anyone has ever tried: "Now I believe in angels..." (did you gag yet?)
I kid you not. These were his words. I was so tipsy I think I burst out laughing, and he took it as a good sign, leaned over and kissed me. I ordered another drink. He was in a hurry to get the bill. I saw him take out his black credit-card, and laughed silently, remembering my roommate who had warned me I would see a black-credit card with this guy.
The ride back in the limo is a little blurry --there was some making out, I'm sure, because we ended up back at the Four Seasons, which is definitely not where I lived.
Now I know I said uncensored, but I will spare you some details. The bottom line is, I was beyond tipsy, I fell asleep on a super comfortable bed in a suite in one of the biggest hotels in New York, and there was one Certain Fellow who was fairly disappointed by the failed magic of his black card.
I woke up slightly confused about where I was. It was 7am, and the Certain Fellow was back in business mode, on the phone and typing emails and getting dressed all at once. I put on my heels, dreading the walk of shame I had ahead of me.
And as a grand finale, just as I stepped out of the Four Seasons, with the trailer of my own movie playing in my head, I tripped. I fell, at 7 in the morning, on the steps of the grandiose hotel, in front of all the concierges, valets, and taxi drivers passing by, wearing a mini black dress and high heel shoes.
And I smiled, because I could think of no better way to end this excruciatingly cliche moment of my life.
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