After the end of the second date, I adopted a completely blase attitude toward the guy. I searched for some sort of longing for a text, only to realize that I really didn't care either way; I wasn't all that jazzed about seeing him again. He did text and did ask for another date and I agreed. I suppose I should have declined if I was losing interest, but one thing I learned from Aziz Ansari is that you don't really get to know someone until dates 4-5. I was heeding his advice and giving this guy a chance.
He suggested another Saturday night date this time to share yet another favorite cuisine of ours, Indian. Now I don't put Indian food anywhere in the date-food category, but we both love it and I was steadily losing interest. I really had nothing to lose. I bumped the date to an early 6pm for a Saturday, giving me ample chance to leave and meet friends if things got hairy. Upon seeing him, the date one flame had formally fizzled. The restaurant was lively enough for the old bird dinner hour and I knew I could at least direct the conversation to people watching.
He got points for giving me free reign of the menu since I had lots of suggestions on what we should order. The service was painfully slow for a date that wouldn't end and I sat bored while listening him talk about who knows what. It's amazing how quickly perception of a situation changes once emotions (and alcohol content) are limited.
I was happy once the food arrived so I could focus on the task at hand and really had no choice but to stifle conversation. So I ate. And I ate. And I ate some more. I ate my fair share of naan and much of my main. Even as I was starting to get uncomfortably full, I reminded the waitress of a forgotten appetizer because I was planning to make the most out of this meal. This is another reason I firmly blacklist Indian food from dates; I simply cannot stop eating it. Had I cared about being lady-like, I would have stopped once I felt the slightest bit full, but I was well past that point. The curries and pungent flavors lured me in a way no man could.
I then had an epiphany. This was my out. I would eat my way out of this date. I would eat to a most uncomfortable level and then insist on going home because I felt ill. This was all-too-easy of a task. My dinner companion stopped long ago, but I wouldn't be deterred by an unworthy opponent. I did finish my entire entree and well as all my rice as well as most of the unnecessary appetizer. I was in a tailspin straight past food coma and into physical pain. I insisted that I ate too much (duh) and couldn't help it (partially true) and that it'd be best for me to call it a night. He suggested we "walk it off" for a bit and my pitiful attempt at relief only sustained me for four blocks. He finally acquiesced when I almost sprinted after an available cab. I had to go home. He understood. I apologized profusely (white lie) and he replied, "I know you'd stay out if you felt better." If he only knew.
Of all the ways I've tried to get out of dates, this was by far the best tactic. Sure it came with physical discomfort, but it also came with mountains of baingan bharta and garlic naan. I was overly full, home by 9, and out of spending the rest of the evening with this man. I pat myself on the back.
He texted the next day to see how I was feeling (I know what you're thinking). I had made a full recovery and he asked me on another date for the coming week.
I responded with a direct and what I consider polite response, "I think we peaked on our first date."
He responded, "fair enough."
Indeed it was.
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