Meth Date Ever!

We all have baggage. Some of us have a carry on, some of us have a POD container that gets picked up by a tractor trailer.  That’s fine.  We all go through shit as a result of our own bad decisions. We recover and put our life back together and become productive members of society, right? RIGHT??? The question is, "What can I overlook and what can I not overlook?" Well, I had a greater understanding following an interesting date with "Methany."  

I met Methany through the wondrous world of online dating, Plenty of Fish, which is apparently the Craigslist of dating sites. Needless to say, this had success written all over it. Her profile said she was a Personal Trainer, which was awesome considering I was also a Personal Trainer.  I envisioned us taking our tight and toned bodies to Red Rocks to run the steps, going on hikes, doing burpees, and spotting each other on weights, before returning our sweaty six packed bodies home where we sexed our finely tuned bodies into an exhausted heap of glistening fitness.

   

In addition to our common occupations, her pictures were hot, which, let's be honest, was all that really mattered. I reached out to her, did the usual back and forth bullshit that all online suitors go through, exchanged phone numbers, texted for a couple days, and finally agreed to meet.  I would have rather just began our interaction with an invitation to have drinks, but there's a protocol you have to follow with online dating.  It is redundant, exhausting, and utterly ridiculous.  

 

I arrived at Bar Louie a few minutes early so I could pick a table that allows me to scout the front door so I can see her walk in.   I've found that online dating is kinda like shopping through an IKEA catalog.  The Kosjk looks great in the pictures. However, you get it home and realize you can't understand the manual. You lack the tools to adequately put it together and after hours of frustration, annoyance, and stripped screws, you feel the disappointment that comes with realizing this isn't what you needed.  You put it out on the curb and next thing you know you are back on Craigslist, or rather, Plenty of Fish. 

   

To my surprise, she is already there and sitting in a way that I can only see her from the chest up.  This is a common ploy of women who wish to hide everything from the boobs down, more than likely because they are thicker than they portrayed. Nothing wrong with that, just own your shit from the start and don't hide who you are. Truth be known, a great smile goes a hell of a lot further than a tight ass. Besides, I don't want to feel pressured to keep up with your fitness level, but I digress. 
 

I sit down and the conversation immediately goes towards fitness routines.  This has proven to be our only commonality so we run with it.  

 

I explain that I am primarily a lifter and have always struggled with my biceps.  She tells me, "You need testosterone."  As a man approaching 40, I've heard about waning testosterone levels and the need for men to supplement, so I tell her that I have been thinking about seeing a doctor and getting on a regimen, to which she replies, "No, I mean artificial testosterone." Huh? She goes on to say, "I have a guy that sells steroids, you should try that." WHAT.THE. FUCK? 
 

"Yeah, it's easy! You just inject it directly into your thigh...with a six inch fucking horse needle!" (I may have added the last part.) 

I mentioned the shrinking balls and back zits, to which she relies, "...the fuck do you need your balls for, and who cares about zits... Just wear a shirt." Damn. Apparently I've been going about this the wrong way. 

 

The conversation goes on and I ask her, "So what got you into personal training?" I always ask this question of PT's and the typical responses are "I love fitness," "I love to workout," "I want to help others," blah blah blah, selflessness, save people, yadda, yadda, yadda. Methany's response, while unique, stopped me in my tracks.  

 

Methany says, matter of factly, "Well, after doing five years in prison for the manufacturing and distribution of meth, I couldn’t find a job so I figured I could do this, get paid under the table, not pay taxes, and make a good living."

  

Wait...what?

 

To be honest, I wasn’t completely sure I heard what I just heard.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to be sure I heard what I just heard, but I made the mistake of saying, "...uhh...come again?" With that, she launched into a long story about covering for a boyfriend, he's a dick, did it for him, she's loyal, prison was awesome. Words, words, more words, the words just kept coming; unfortunately, all I could recall were the words "meth" and "prison." I'm pretty sure I also heard "lesbian" and "wife," which I would have liked to explore in more detail, but, silly me, for some reason I still felt the need to be a decent and polite guy and not be so obvious in my perversions.   

 

As I listen to what I can only imagine is the same story she told the parole board, she is also ordering a cocktail that I have never heard of before.  No idea what it is or what is in it. All I know is that it has a really long name, possibly French, certainly not domestic. By now she's probably ordered three or four of these concoctions.  Being that I have never heard of this beverage I can only assume she invented it in prison with the aid of a shitter distillery and leftover fruit from the prison cafeteria.  Meanwhile, I have had two Coors Lights.  This is important to remember, so pay attention. 

 

The date continues because, what the hell, why not? She's ordering shots for us, for a new friend she met in the bathroom, the bartender, and the people at the table next to us, and the kitchen staff. I'm thinking, she must be doing pretty well what with how generous she's being.  If nothing else, maybe I'll get some free drinks out of her, however... 

 

I can't help but feel serious reservations.  Not reservations about a future with this charming minx, as that ship sailed a long time ago.  Reservations about continuing this train wreck of a date. I reason that as long as we avoid leaving the bar and anyone that asked, "Do you like to party," I'd remain relatively safe and make it to work the next day with my criminal record and asshole fully intact.  As I will soon find out, my plan was not without fault.

Ultimately, I decide that between being offered anabolic steroids through "a guy she knows" and learning how to make a shank out of a tampon and a leftover pudding cup, I've had about all I can for one night. Mercifully, I tell her I have to work in the morning and I have had enough Coors Lights to make the morning routine difficult. I wave the server over and ask for my tab, but not before Methany quickly orders another drink. 

The server brings me my tab and for the third or fourth time of the night I am treated to another WHAT. THE. FUCK. moment.  Apparently, her fancy schmancy cocktail choice ($10.00 EACH, or a dollar for each syllable) and the numerous shots she ordered for every fucking person she shared air with brought the tab to over a hundred dollars! A HUNDRED AND TEN DOLLARS TO BE EXACT!!!

Are you shitting me? The purpose of the "meet for drinks" is to get to know someone, not to pay someone's cell phone bill!

 

"How much money do you have?" I say to her, completely abandoning the chivalrous, "Let me take care of this," that typically follows suit. I've paid for drinks for some pretty horrible dates. Those stories are for another chapter, but there was no way in hell I was paying for Crazy Eyes' drinks! 

 

As if she's been in this situation before, she mockingly acts surprised and says, "I don’t have any money!"

 "Your drinks cost ten dollars each!"

"I didn’t know they would cost that much!"

"You knew they would cost SOMETHING!"

 

I mean, ladies, isn't it customary for you to bring your own money in case the guy is a douche and you don’t want him paying for your drinks for fear that by allowing the douche to buy your drinks he may feel entitled to some ass?

 

At this point, I am pissed! 

 

First of all, Methany misrepresented her appearance and thought she could hide it by sitting on the other side of the table, never mind the fact that as soon as she walked to the bathroom I could tell that the only personal training she did consisted of lifting donuts to her face hole and washing it down with a carafe of gravy. Unfortunately, no smile was good enough to offset anything. 

   

Second, Methany tried to sell me anabolic steroids!  Prison clearly didn't rehabilitate her and any future with her may or may not involve a survival pack and a safe house in Mexico. 

 

Third, Methany tells me she's an ex-con that did time in the penitentiary for making and selling meth, but she did it to protect her boyfriend, which is supposed to demonstrate her loyalty to whatever guy she is with. I suppose that is a good trait; however, I cannot imagine putting her in such a situation beyond whatever offense comes with buying an eighth of weed.

  

And the icing on the proverbial shit cake, she racks up a tab in excess of one hundred dollars by ordering the most expensive fucking drink not on the menu, and has the audacity to tell me she has no money!   

 

I look at her with utter disgust and contempt, and she knows I am THIS CLOSE to losing my shit. I look away as I am clearly beyond pissed, staring at this tab, wondering what bill isn't getting paid in lieu of this bullshit night. 

 

 "I'll suck your dick!"  

 

Huh? 

 

Really??? That’s your solution? That’s an awful expensive blow job from a crackhead.  Hell, I could go down Colfax Avenue and find a genuine crackhead to give me a blow job for $10 and a Big Mac! I was at a loss and, really, had no choice but to pay the tab and end this fiasco. 

 

While this was certainly not the ideal date (if such a thing exists), it did help me realize a couple things. What I realized was that while we all have baggage, some things are just too much.  Don’t feel bad about that.  You are your own person and entitled to set parameters for what you will and will not accept.  Just make sure you own it and feel no remorse.  This is your heart you're talking about.  Settle for nothing less than what you want in a person.  Chances are, ninety percent of your dates will not be right for you. Keep at it and, one day, you will find "the one." 

 

ADVICE FOR WOMEN: We all have baggage, even you.  Don’t be upset if your date cannot accept you for your past.  Conversely, accept that there are things you won't accept in another man's past.  It is what it is.  Keep your head up and move on. 

 

ADVICE FOR MEN: $100 bar tab will get you an amazing fucking blow job.