The Wife Hunter

Jun 25, 2015
6 min read

It's great to meet a guy that wants to get married, but not if date #2 is at the alter.

I was starting to get the hang of it. Apparently, my next first date went better than I thought (my story vs. his story) and I was excited to continue dating. I was finding that most people online were looking for the same thing I was, or I should say NOT looking for the same thing I was. Everybody online says they’re not looking for anything serious, even if they are. We’ll discuss how to tell the difference at a later time…

I swiped right on a guy who seemed down to earth but wasn’t necessarily my type (remember I was trying to explore outside my normal dating habits). He was definitely attractive though, kind of a more stocky version of Tom Cruise, and talked a lot about his nieces, his ambitions, and his family and the family business. Great. Family oriented, focused. I’m in.

Oh, and the family business? An Italian meats and cheeses company. My inner-fatty was yelling, PLEASE DATE HIM RIGHT NOW! FEED ME CURRED MEATS! GIVE ME SAUSAGE! (No, that was not a penis reference, I just really like Italian meat… no, seriously… get your mind out of the gutter, you perv.)

We agreed to meet for lunch and he pulls up in a fancy car. Hmm. The meat business must be growing… He’s probably very skilled in the meat department… I bet he’s a hard worker… Customers must really enjoy his meat (I’m sorry, I can’t help myself. I’m done.) I step out of my Civic and lean on the passenger-side fender, no, not trying to look sexy, trying to disguise the bumper that is half falling off. He comes over.

“Wow. You’re very pretty.” (Hello, it’s nice to meet you as well. I’m fine, thanks for asking.) “Oh. Thanks!” (I’ll make sure to tell my parents they did a good job.) “What happened to your bumper?” (The distraction didn’t work.) “I got a little too brave making a K-turn.” (Shut up and tell me about your meat! Do not say that out loud.) “My friend does great body work. I can set you up.” (Is HE making innuendos now? No, I am the only one here with the mind of a 12 year old boy.)

The place he picked is also kind of fancy. Most places save candle light for dinner, but not this place. There are a lot of forks. The waiter is wearing a bow tie, and not the cool hipster type either. He’s staring at me. Not the waiter, the Meat Man.

“You’re prettier than I expected.” I look up from my forks. Note to self- review pictures on profile when you get home.

How is one supposed to respond to that? I smile shyly and hope he changes the subject. He doesn’t. “I mean, your pictures are great, but in person. Wow. You are so my type.”

Ok. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good compliment here and there. Who doesn’t? But ONE good compliment would have been sufficient. This was a bit much. Mind you, he was still staring at me. It’s not like he was sitting across from Gisele, and let’s not forget the crutches and the drag queen incident. I’m an awkward mother fucker.

THANK GOD FOR BREAD. This is not the first time I’ve declared this, but this is the first time I’ve really understood how amazing it is that restaurants always bring bread to the table. I’m wondering if they do this to break the tension of awkward moments. I offer him the basket, he refuses (I should have walked out right there) and then take a piece for myself. He starts talking again.

“Tell me about yourself. Where do you see yourself in five years?” I look up again, surprised, mouth full of bread. It’s the good kind too, the warm pizza dough type…

“Um,” I buy some time, “I’m not sure exactly. I was thinking about opening a company.” He nods intently. I guess I’m supposed to continue. Awkwardly, “Eventually, I’d like to have a family, so who knows! Maybe I’ll be married by then!” I laugh, more to myself, because he did not laugh. Instead, his eyes lit up like I magically said exactly the words he’s been waiting to hear his whole life. Quickly, I ask, “Where do you see yourself?” “Well, I started taking over the business and I’m looking to buy a house soon. Hopefully, I’ll be married and starting a family by then.” “Wow,” I laugh, “You really know what you want out of life.” I grab another piece of bread. “Yes,” He leans his elbows on the table and shifts forward, “I do.” More bread. Now. Apparently, I carbo-load when I’m uncomfortable.

The waiter in the bow tie approaches with our food and Meat Man is forced to shift back away from the table.

As the plates are spread across the table, I take a second to process. Is this really as awkward as I think it is? Am I overreacting? Maybe I’m just not ready to talk about anything wedding related yet. He really does seem nice. I should cut him some slack and give him a chance.

“Would you like to know where I want to get married?” Okay, no more chances.

And that asshole in the bow tie took the bread. We are NOT friends. Well, Michele. If he tells you about his big dream wedding then at least you can eat quickly and maybe get out of here faster. Indulge him. He describes how he’d like a big formal wedding, with tuxes and gowns. It should be at either the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan or at the Ritz Carlton in Naples, Florida. His family owns a house right near the Ritz, of course, so he’s been there to check out the ballroom. He says the views are stunning. “I’ll bet,” I say politely. “It sounds pretty.” “Not as pretty as my bride will be.” Pretty was the wrong word choice, Michele. Stop talking and keep eating, you jerk. He continues, “I’m looking for someone who’s honest, down to earth, modest. Someone who wants to have a family… Someone who doesn’t ‘like to play games’.” Seriously? He’s air quoting my friggin’ profile.

Guys, I’m sweating. Like, a mom having a hot flash while driving a car with no AC in the middle of August, kind of sweating. There are not enough complimentary bread baskets in the world to save me now.

The guy in the pretentious bow tie comes back, empty handed, and asks if we’d like to see the dessert menu. I hate him. And his little bow tie too. “Would you like dessert, hun?” Meat Man just called me “hun.” Can I just remind you that this was the first date? Well, more like an interview to be Mrs. Meat Man. “Oh, no thanks. I’m trying to cut back on sweets.” That was a lie. I’d probably agree to murder for a baked good. Not today.

The waiter immediately produces the bill, obviously trying to win his way back into my good graces, and Meat Man just as quickly whips out his credit card. By the time I look up from grabbing my wallet, the waiter and his bow tie are already gone. Meat Man laughs, “No, that’s okay, hun. I already took care of it.” I thank him for lunch, we stand and go to exit the restaurant. He gestures for me to exit first, commenting as I pass.

“I really like your hair color. It compliments your skin tone. It must be natural. You don’t seem like the type that would dye your hair.” “No,” I retort, “I had a little extra blonde added underneath.” See, Meat Man, you don’t know me.

He makes sure to hold the door for me, and I thank him as I walk out. As the breeze hits my face, I breathe in the sweet, sweet air of freedom.

Then, I feel his hand on the small of my back. Is he escorting me up the street? “I have a shirt just like this. Is it Burberry?” he asks. “Nope!” I say, probably more aggressively than necessary, and shift away a little to look at my shirt, and more importantly to escape his grip. “It’s from Target.” Remember, at this point, I’m just hoping my bumper is still attached when I get to my car. I start walking faster. I can see my little Civic in the distance. So close, yet so far.

“So, maybe on our next date, I can take you on a drive to see some of the houses I’m looking at. Would you like that?” “Yeah,” I lie again, “maybe next time.” Get to the car. GET. TO. THE. CAR.

Finally there, “Well, thank you for lunch. It was nice to meet you.” He puts a hand on my waist and leans in for the goodbye. I do the awkward, ass out, cheek deliberately to the side, face bump type of hug and pull away quickly. He says he’ll call me when he gets home. I smile and laugh nervously fumbling with my keys in the door. I’m trying desperately to be polite despite the fact that I spent the last two hours falling sweaty prey to the Wife Hunter. He wasn’t rude, just, who talks wedding plans on a first date?!

I pumped the air conditioning, directed the vents right at my chest, and took a detoured way home- just in case he was following me to see where his future in-laws lived.