You Said You Were Blond

From across the room our eyes met, and everything else around us -- the waiter serving champagne, the five piece jazz ensemble playing a Sonny Rollins tune, and a room full of society's elite or wannabes -- seemed to flow in slow motion. I heard nothing, I saw nothing other than the fireworks of romance exploding from her eyes.

In a silver ball gown, glistening under the starry night and with medium length brown curls caressing the delicate outline of her shoulders, I knew she was Seeking30, my online friend.

As smooth as a velvet mist might float above the Scottish heather in a glorious purple and gold dawn, I sauntered toward her, with the confidence of a businessman who had just secured his first ten digit contract but with the casual swagger of a bass player who was wrapping up the encore after a three hour gig with Jethro Tull.

Suave as always, I could tell she was stunned. Her mouth agape, and with my eyes never leaving hers, I willed her over to a table. She obeyed and we sat down simultaneously.

Silently -- my eyes still not leaving hers -- I beckoned the waiter, who brought us two glasses of ice water and who introduced himself as Jeeves.

Knowing I already appeared so cool, I reached out to my glass and raised it -- my eyes still on her -- and put it to my mouth.

OUCH!

It was hot!

It dropped from my grasp and shattered on the floor. The waiter was at my side in an instant.

"I must complain to the management," I said politely but firmly.

"But sir," the waiter began.

"I must speak to the management at once. Your ice water is far too hot. It's quite dangerous."

"But sir," the waiter tried again.

"Please, I wish to speak to the management."

"But sir," he tried again.

"Yes, what is it?" I asked, quite annoyed by now.

"Sir, begging your pardon sir, but it appears that you tried to drink the candle that was sitting on the table. Notice that your glass of ice water is still there."

Oh. So it was.

"I see, I see. I suggest then that you change either your candles or your ice water distribution vessels so that this mistake does not happen again."

"Yes sir, I'll see that it's handled appropriately." And he left, the poor man obviously flustered at the restaurant's blunder.

It was then that she spoke. I saw her lips twitch as movement began, forming the first words in slow motion. What would she say? Would she mention how awestruck she was? Would she actually propose to me first?

"You don't have blond hair," she said as her opening remark.

"Right, yes, quite right," I agreed. I could see that she was acutely observant.

"Your profile said it was blond," she stated, just a touch louder than her previous sentence.

"Oh, did it?" I asked. "Sometimes I forget to whom I've told what, exactly. But we all know that hair color isn't terribly important, don't we." I laughed, more of a chuckle, really.

"Why did your profile say it was blond?" she asked, moving up to Volume Three on a Ten Volume Level scale, if the first sentence was at Volume One and the second at Volume Two. At this rate, she would have seven more sentences remaining and then she would have to call it quits for the evening. I wondered if all ten of her statements would be about hair color.

"Do we obsess about hair color often, or only on first dates?" I asked, thinking it was a seemingly innocent question.

"I am not obsessed," she somewhat defiantly asserted, skipping Volume Level Four and going directly to Volume Level Five.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I had blond hair back when I was in college. It's gotten darker over the years since then."

"Over the years? That's another thing. Your online bio said that you were thirty. You've got to be at least, oh, forty-five."

Volume Level Six.

"Forty-eight, actually," I clarified.

"Forty-eight? Why did the bio say thirty?" Volume Level Seven was hit.

"I was thirty!" I stated.

"Well I was ten at one point in my life, but I didn't put that in my bio," she blurted somewhat sarcastically and not without a hint of anger. There was Volume Level Eight.

"No, I mean I was thirty when I wrote the bio for the dating service, though of course it wasn't an online service back then."

"What?" she shouted. She definitely reached Volume Level Nine on that one. "You haven't changed the bio for eighteen years?"

"I didn't have to," I said, remaining calm and wishing she would too. "This is the first time anyone has responded to the ad."

"You mean ... you mean ... you've been trying to get a date for eighteen years, and I'm the first one?" She was back down to Volume Level Two. I think she was embarrassed at her earlier outbreaks and was trying to blend into the crowd now. I could sense a full scale apology coming in a moment or two.

"Well, not really eighteen years," I began explaining.

She looked relieved, momentarily.

"It was more like seventeen and a half years," I continued.

"Seventeen and a half years!" She snorted. Oh oh, she was back to Volume Level Nine.

"Yes, that's right. Well, not exactly seventeen and a half. If you must know, it was seventeen years, seven months, two weeks, three days, nineteen hours, thirty-one minutes, and two seconds, give or take."

"Give or take," she said, with a dazed look numbing her otherwise radiant countenance.

I smiled. I felt like we were starting to make a connection.

She sighed and then continued. "You're not blond, you're not thirty, and let me guess: you're not a surgeon, you didn't grow up in Copenhagen, you're not an actor in television commercials, and you're not a weight trainer. Right?"

"Well, if you put it that way, I suppose you're right. But, I did surgically remove a splinter from Aunt Ruth's big toe, and I grew up in a room full of Copenhagen chewing tobacco tins that my mom had used. Remember the Fruit of the Loom underwear commercials? I subbed once for the guy who was the purple grapes. And I'm not a weight trainer, I train waiters."

"You train waiters?"

"Yes, I train waiters. Watch this. Oh Jeeves," I shouted, signaling our waiter, who came over at once. "Jeeves, could you show Miss ... uh ... Miss ... this fine lady here, how you can balance eight plates on your arm at once?"

"Eight plates, sir?"

"Eight plates."

He leaned down and whispered, "I can't do eight plates, sir. We're only allowed to do six here, sir."

I returned the whisper. "Do eight and I'll double your tip."

"Eight it is, sir," he said, bouncing back to the kitchen.

"Well well well," I said to my date, once again latching on to her eyes with mine. "Duty calls," I said somewhat profoundly.

"Duty calls? You mean, you were or are in the military?"

"No, I meant that ..."

"You're an officer, a fireman, or something of that nature?" she said, interrupting me.

"No, not really, but ..."

"Are you a pastor or priest?" she asked, again interrupting me.

"Heavens no," I said, pleased at my witty response.

She sat there, not laughing, her mouth simply agape.

"Duty calls," I repeated. "I mean, I must use the facilities. I'll be back."

I excused myself, found my way to the men's restroom, and, from start to finish, the whole process -- including washing my hands -- took only one minute and forty-two seconds. That was my third fastest time ever. I exited the restroom and walked quickly back toward the table, excited about telling my date the news.

Unfortunately, my path to the table happened to go right by the kitchen door. As I passed the kitchen, my waiter Jeeves came out, bearing eight plates on one arm. We collided.

It wasn't pretty, not pretty at all.

"My dear Jeeves, we must watch where we're going, mustn't we?" I picked him up, scraped the guacamole off his lapel, and then I walked back to my table.

My date was gone. Vanished. She had ceased to be a date.

I sighed. No matter, I thought. I can still enjoy the dinner.

Jeeves appeared at my table with a bucket, filled with what had been the contents of the eight plates. I'm not sure exactly what you would call it, but it was a sort of combination of spaghetti, a bean burrito, mahi mahi, tandoori chicken, and Beijing duck.

I ate quickly -- one can eat quickly when one has no one else to talk to -- and filled out the tip amount on the bill.

Jeeves came by to pick up the signed bill, and I headed toward the door.

It was then that I heard Jeeves, at a full Volume Level Ten.

"Ten percent? You gave me a ten percent tip? You said you would double my tip!"

"My good man, no fears," I assured him. "I did double it. I originally was going to give you five percent."

I smiled and whistled as I headed out the door, pleased that I had found such a delightful restaurant. And now I could go home and check off my "Go on a date" line item from my to do list.

It had taken nearly eighteen years to complete, but they do say that the good things in life are worth waiting for, or something like that.