Crashing, “accidental dates”
February 6, 2009.
In my book, as a classic romantic, dating is courting. Boy meets girl. Boy feels swooned by girl. Boy steps up to invite girl on a date.
It’s that black and white, and beautiful. And most easy for the “girl” to understand.
Versus the smudgy grey. The fella invites the gal to an event “that would be of interest” to her, for example. He gets her there; and suddenly she finds herself on a date, per his giving an unexpected and smooch goodnight followed by a giddy smile.
I found myself there once, at an incoming unexpected smooch. Another time a fellow who was in the wine biz, whom I’d met at a wine auction as I was a writer about wine, invited me to join him at an exclusive wine tasting. As a member of the media, I could have plucked an invitation to the tasting myself. Yet I politely accepted his invitation. Per my understanding, he’d extended professional courtesy, from a wine marketer to a wine writer.
Naught pointed otherwise, till midst the tasting, the fellow insinuated we were on a date. I replied, with furled brows, this isn’t a date.
And “the date” was over. He, after confirming this isn’t a date, bid adieu and left. Without worry of how his “date” — or guest, per my understanding, who bided her attention to him as a host – would find her way home.
Both times these first “dates” were last dates, and last of any other correspondence.
Had these particular fellows asked me straightforward on a date, I’d have politely declined. That’s probably why they lured me into ”accidental dates” and hoped I’d conform.
Or maybe, per some twist of thought, they believed I knew their invitation was a date. All I know is it didn’t work. They wasted both our times, and left me with a bad taste whenever I remember them.
Which is seldom. I maintain that when a fella wants to ask a lady out on a first date, he make it very clear that he”s charmed by her and would like to invite her on a date.