I should have known the date was ill-fated when I woefully ran out of Moroccan Oil in the preparatory stages. But, geesh, let’s not be overly dramatic.
I met Brent at Spill the Wine last Saturday, which turned out to be a bubbly, brilliant and beautiful day in bright-eyed Minneapolis. Brent was from Moooooooooooooooooose Lake (correct pronunciation; incorrect spelling) and an auditor by day, seemingly boring man by night.
I had just barely made it to the date itself. The parking lot of the restaurant was closed off for a wedding and I found my cashless self digging in the dusty depths of my car for a quarter or two to stave off a parking ticket while I dined. I then proceeded to teeter up to the main door in my overly-pointed heels, praying I wouldn’t biff it in front of the vacillating dudes valeting the wedding shin-dig with nary an interest in helping a poor girl out.
Brent and I spent the majority of our date discussing, no joke, Sarbanes Oxley. SOX is essentially legislation that came to fruition after the scandalous likes of Enron corporate greed and whatnot, and represents the current driving force in financial reporting, so you can only imagine the entertainment level achieved at our dining table.
As much as I enjoy meeting men in a similar field to me, I, by no means, have any interest in dating a number-crunching auditing fellow. I already lovingly satisfy my deep affection for numbers all on my own, thanks — I want someone to challenge my horizons and respectfully push my boundaries. Maybe he is an entrepreneur, artist, teacher, traveler… just not another anal, crazy, type A++, order-craving individual such as myself. Because that would be simply combustible. No offense to me or anything.
(I need a place to champion the men I am meeting. They are successful, driven, quality people with whom I may not have a chemical connection, but who should nonetheless be celebrated as quality men worthy of dinner and a drink, even if I harpoon them in an earlier write-up…)
Before we close: Date #12, aka Jeremy #2, was an animated, bright-purple-shirt-wearing Oregon transplant who… who… mistakenly questioned my pronunciation of “edamame” and. And. … Gosh darn it, I’ve forgotten anything else definitive about the date… except for the scrumptious Salut french fries and my polite jettisoning at the end of the date. #isoundlikeaheartlessperson
It’s all part of the adventure and the experience, right?