To prepare for the date, I did what I do when faced with any foreign situation. I searched Google for advice, typing in "preparing for a date." I expected to find cool make up tips, new hair styles, and sexy clothes. Instead, one of the first articles I came across was, "Tips for Anal Bleaching." Huh? What fresh hell is this? The last time I had a date the only thing we were bleaching, other than our roots, was a little facial hair, and that was just because electrolysis had yet to be invented.
I was stunned. The article said that "Anal bleaching allows both men and women to look their best especially in their most intimate areas." So not only do I have to worry about frown lines, thinning hair and saggy boobs, now I have to obsess over the state of my anus? Honestly, who sits around with a mirror worrying about the color of their anus?
I decided my money would be better spent on a little Botox and a beautiful red shawl from Anthropologie. I was literally putting my money where my mouth was. For the time being, my anus was put on the back burner.
Date night came and I was pumped. I dressed to the nines with the kind of vengeance that only comes from being dumped by your husband for a young European hottie while still having access to his American Express gold card. (The card was soon pried out of my hands at mediation, but that's another story.) I'm not sure how my anus was holding up but the rest of me looked pretty good.
I showed up at the scheduled time, excited and nervous as hell. As I strolled through the parking lot I noticed that I would not describe the place as "a really nice restaurant on the water." It would more accurately be categorized as a tiki bar on a trash ridden canal. I had pictured us getting to know each other over elegant appetizers and martinis. I guess gator bites and beer would have to do.
I glanced around the bar for a guy who could pass for a Jewish chiropractor. People who could be cast members from Swamp People, yes. Jewish chiropractor, no. I felt like Princess Diana visiting the leper colonies.
I casually walked around the bar, searching for my date. One guy looked up at me from under his Budweiser cap and said, "Huh?" which I interpreted as, "Why are you wearing a shawl at a tiki bar?" I tried to remain cool. To kill time I chatted up the hostess/bartender. When I asked for a wine list, she pointed to a chalkboard. I had no choice but to order a glass of warm Alice White Chardonnay and pretend this was exactly what I had come here for. Just a cool single gal, enjoying a night out and trying to avoid stepping in beer spit. I finished my wine and realized it was official. I had been stood up. How appropriate that a guy I almost bleached my anus for turned out to be a huge asshole.
I immediately headed over to my friend's house. She seemed shocked to see me at her door as most dates usually last more than 20 minutes.
"Apparently, I can't give this shit away," I said.
I sat at her kitchen table and debated whether to call Doc 0965, perhaps to inform him that he wasn't fooling anyone — that we all know chiropractors aren't real fucking doctors — but I decided against it. One thing I learned during my divorce-induced fits of hysteria, was if at all possible, try to maintain some form of dignity. Instead, I knocked back three glasses of Pinot Noir and sent drunk text messages to my ex. I then got in my car, backed into my friend's tree, and drove home with a shattered windshield.
Here are the lessons I learned from the experience:
A.) Don't drink and drive. B.) Don't bleach your anus until you have at least met the guy. C.) Don't give up.
The chances are good that if you set up enough dates, you will be stood up at least once. If you find yourself in this situation, make the most of it and enjoy the night out with yourself. You might learn something you didn't know. I learned I feel like an idiot wearing a shawl — really I feel like an idiot just saying "shawl."
I also learned something a bit more intimate about myself: I don't want to bleach my asshole, and I certainly don't want to date one.
Read more by Amy Koko at AmyKoko.com
