Um, actually, I went on a date.

It’s been a while since I’ve written, and I promise to blog about the highlights of the trip to Ireland eventually, but that’s going to have to wait for now.

I went on a date last week. I know – shocker. I mean, I was shocked when he called, so there you go. But I’m skipping ahead. We met at a bar in Queens the Friday before. Two of my friends and I were having a girls’ night out, and we were in the middle of catching up when this guy, call him Sam, comes over and says to us, “Hi. My friend and I have a question for you guys. What do you guys think of Fanny Packs?” Not knowing what to say, my friends and I burst into laughter at this awful, but successful, line.

“I think they’re the 2^nd worst thing to come out of the Eighties after shoulder pads,” I finally said, and the conversation went from there. He was friendly, good-looking, and able to keep up with the one-liners my friends and I were throwing at him. He and his friend stayed for a little while, but since it was his friend’s first time at the bar, they decided to take a lap and check out the place with the promise of coming back eventually. Ha. Like I actually believed that.

My friends and I must have had an invisible sign on our foreheads that said, “Creepers Please Join Us,” because the next thing I knew, a very large, much older, fairly hairy man was sitting next to me with his arm around me. It wasn’t just resting on my shoulder in a casual way (if you can call anything about this situation casual); he was holding onto my arm in a way that suddenly made me uncomfortable. I told him to take his arm off me and to back off, but apparently he didn’t speak English. So I tried a new tactic. I flipped my Claddagh Ring from my middle finger to my ring finger and turned it so the band was on the outside of my finger. I held it up to the guy and said, “Hey, take your arm off. I’m married.” This seemed to work for about a second, as he showed some semblance of understanding me, but then he put his arm around me again. And I told him to back off. Again. Thankfully one of my friends spoke some Spanish and managed to tell the guy to go away and never return for he was a creepy old man who should stop hitting on young women. Actually, I’m pretty sure she was a lot nicer about it, but that’s what I would have said had I paid more attention in my high school Spanish classes.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, we were no sooner rid of Creepy-Old-Man when two other guys tried their luck. I forget their entry line. I’m pretty sure it could have been as lame as, “Is this seat taken?” – a question to which the answer was so painfully obvious we had no choice but to indulge in conversation. Their names were Peter and Abe, and my first comment was, “How biblical.” Peter, the comedian of the pair (no really, he claimed he did amateur stand-up) said, “Well when we’re out together, my friends call me Moses.” I had nothing for that.

I think Peter claimed to be an actor, but I was instantly turned off when I went to say something and Peter, with his finger wagging, goes, “Oh no. Don’t interrupt me.” Out of pure spite, I continued talking. Luckily, I saw Sam walk by and gave a subtle wave. He just smiled and waved back as if he knew exactly what kind of situation my friends and I were in. When he walked back to the bar, I caught his eye and mouthed, “Help. Please.” Neither Peter nor Abe seemed to notice, but Sam said, “Only if you admit you like fanny packs.” Still trying to be subtle, I said, “Fine. I love them. Please help.” Sam came over and said, “Who would like to help me carry beer out to my friends?” and just like that we were free of the prophets.

My two friends went to the bathroom, and while they were there, Sam and I continued chatting. He asked me if I’d like to hang out again some time, and I said yes and gave him my number, fairly certain I’d never hear from my new friend again. The next day one of my other friends told me not to be so jaded when I admitted that I didn’t actually expect to hear from Sam, but the truth is, in New York it’s rare for a guy to actually call back. And let’s be honest: If I give a guy my number and my real name with the correct spelling, what are the odds they remember who I am or how to say it the next day?

With Sam, the odds were high. He called the following Monday (one day earlier than predicted), and we agreed to meet for drinks and snacks. We went to a cute place downtown that had outdoor seating, and sat and talked over three glasses of wine (for me) and three pints (for him). After we were done our drinks, I was craving ice cream, so we went to Cold Stone where we split (okay, I had most of it) a chocolate-ice-cream-with-Heath-Bar mix.

One would think that a mix of [three glasses of] good wine and chocolate ice cream would be enough to make this girl swoon, but here’s the thing. There was no spark. No butterflies. No vah-vah-voom (a description I heard on the latest edition of The Bachelorette. Don’t judge.). He was great – sweet, funny, really smart, talented, well-read, and not divorced, so he was already two steps ahead. But it just felt like I was hanging out with a friend, which is fine. It’s not the initial desired outcome when heading into a date, but at least he was a nice guy, something that’s almost as rare in this city as finding a guy who’ll call back. We’ve spoken once since the date (again, no VVV) and made no definite plans to see each other again. Looking back on the date and the phone call, though, I’m fairly certain that if I ever needed saving from a creeper again and Sam was at the bar, he’d gladly oblige.