Over Served. | Misadventures in the Dark

Over Served.


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Last July, my friends and I gathered at a local restaurant to celebrate my birthday. We reserved two large tables which unfortunately, separated the group. Early in the evening, I noticed one of our servers and thought he was attractive. It was nearly impossible to miss him as he stood almost seven feet tall. Retreating back to my junior high school self, I sent a couple of texts messages to a few girls at the opposite table, encouraging them to inquire if he was single. He, Jonathan, was. I asked them to prod him for his evening plans, asking him to join us later if able. Yes, I was pimping myself out via text message. Classy, I know.   Once we finish dinner, our crowd disperses. The other server approaches me and requests my number to give to Jonathan. I oblige. As we exit the restaurant, I introduce myself to him. I felt like an Oompa Loompa despite wearing unusually high heels. In this moment, I also learn he is left-handed with puppy-dog eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for eyes with a quality of sadness.



Jonathan and me in July of '08.

Yes, he really is a foot and eight inches taller than me.


The following night, Jonathan contacts me. A few days later, he calls and invites me to dinner the following Friday, his birthday. We meet at a local Hibachi restaurant. As we enter, he is greeted with several “hello’s.” Apparently he frequents this place on a regular basis. He is friends with the bartender and before we can place an order, shots arrive. Lots of shots arrive. Saki, tequila, Jager, etc. Somehow, somewhere around shot #25, I fail to remember he is nearly two feet taller and double my weight. In other words, I forgot when to stop “keeping up” with my date. Though I am generally good at holding my liquor, I am also usually aware of my limits.
Despite it being his birthday, he asks of my preference in where we go next. I offer a suggestion and he asks if I am okay with him inviting a few folks to join us. Keep in mind, at this point, we need a driver.  Jonathan, three of his buddies, and I head to our destination. As we enter,  we are both greeted by several people. I am also friends with the band members and I spend a moment talking with them (this is relevant later.) I order a Guinness but should have ordered water. I order another Guinness and mid-way through I feel suddenly sick. I dash to the restroom but nothing happens. He joins me in the ladies restroom as his friends guard the door. Still, outside of feeling as though I am on a merry-go-round, nada.
Jonathan aids in getting me to the car and we leave. Two blocks later, I ask them to pull over. My mouth is watering beyond control, but still, nothing. I lay on the asphalt trying to getting a hold of myself, clearly failing. Somehow, I make it home. I do recall Jonathan carrying me inside. I recall making it two feet into my apartment before crashing. Obviously, nothing occurs, though Jonathan did stay with me. Amazingly, I make it through the entire ordeal without literally losing my liquor (and dinner.)
I am hung-UNDER the next morning. I feel like I am dying. I awake to walk my dog and find myself in the scorching heat while cursing the sun. His friends return to take us to our cars, taunting me the entire duration of the ride. We all decide to eat lunch. I am the butt of the jokes, deservingly. I am mortified as this is out of character for me, but how do you prove that to strangers? I felt assured I would not be asked on a second date, but he quickly proves me wrong.
At a later, one of the aforementioned band members, John, and his wife Kiley come to my house to play cards. Mid-game and John says, “So. You were pretty wasted last time I saw you. You make it home okay? Please tell me you didn’t drive!” I assured him I would not have driven in that condition and he shared a few of my slurred comments. Apparently, I asked John and Kiley to take me home the night I acted like Betty Ford. John said, “Yeah. We’d be happy to take you home but I have another set to play. We will be here another hour or two.” My response? Two words, “No. Now.” I don’t recall this which makes me fear what else I may have uttered. Ugh.
Jonathan and I wound up going on several more dates, but it fizzled out as many things do. Still, we remain friends. I have an arsenal full of bad date stories. So bad, you’ll know they can’t be made up. I thought I would call myself out first.  

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