Date #15: A Second Helping of Cheerios and Special K with Bananas, Peanut Butter, and Chocolate Syrup

I have terrible dating endurance. In a chronological twist on the date-night classic, CASKWBPBACS and I went out for a movie and dinner on Saturday evening. Total running time was approximately four-and-a-half hours but even with 109 of those minutes being accounted for by the minimally taxing movie, it was a little much for me. You still have to be “on” for the duration of the date, and I don’t like having to be “on.” I like just having to be. And preferably in my apartment and pajamas.

Either a result of heightened expectations, or a glimpse of reality or, more likely, an utter absence of breakfast foods, our sophomore meeting unsurprisingly fell short of its remarkable predecessor. I don’t know if waxing occurred, but CASKWBPBACS was less hirsute than I remembered. And also, a little more hunchbacked. Our conversation was easy and amusing enough once we got past his lively retelling of the plot of 10,000 B.C. – a movie I will undoubtedly never be watching – but as we rolled past nine p.m. my interest – and stamina - waned.

(And while we’re on the topic of dwindling resources – damn, dating is expensive. I covered dinner after he got the movie and, let me tell you, it’s gonna be back to cereal for me. I prefer to spend what little disposable income I have on trips to Europe and North Africa and the Gap and that shit can’t happen when you’re shelling out twenty bucks for a plateful of bean sprouts and lentils every weekend.)

My organic vegan vegetable lasagna was pretty great, though. The foreign language drama was just alright. And I guess the evening as a whole fell somewhere in between. A half-hearted good, maybe? It was the kind of night that left me not quite sure. I’m pretty sure CASKWBPBACS liked it, though. He’s going “2” kiss me next time, in fact. And I know this because he told me so a half-hour after parting. In a text message.

Well, if nothing else, I appreciate the warning.

It’s not that I don’t want to experience the sweet succor of CASKWBPBACS’s eager lips, it’s just that I don’t know if I want to. And frankly, that’s not enough for me. In the “does he make me want to scream?” litmus test, he’s a cautious “no,” but then again, so is bag-of-crazy Tyra Banks. Doesn’t mean I want to make out with her. (On second thought, after viewing the most recent - or any - episode of ANTM, Tyra does make me want to scream a little bit, but my argument still stands.)

I know, I know...what’s the big deal, right? It’s just one kiss. Ahhh, but it’s not just an isolated lip-lock. In my experience, one kiss leads to many kisses. Which lead to romance and commitment and expectations and me wearing a white dress before twenty of my nearest and dearest on a Hawaiian island coming to terms with the fact that I really don't. (Okay, so maybe that last bit isn’t from experience, but one can deduce.) Yes, it’s a slippery slope, friends, best dealt with now. Operation Rape Kiss Evasion is a go.

But that’s not to say I won’t see him again. Just perhaps in a more time-controlled, budget-friendly, well-lit atmosphere. Yeah, sounds pretty sweet.

(Seriously, what’s wrong with me?)