"Say it isn't so!" I scream on the inside. Not that I am judging Jane in any way for once weighing in at 400 pounds. She looks great now, and her diet or exercise or surgical experience has certainly done the trick.
No, the problem I have now is that respectable Jane is being somewhat drawn into Mitch's "allure". She must feel a camaraderie with this until-now nothing-special blind date.
And then I realize why Jane, who looked so put together, needed a blind date. She still feels insecure about the old Jane, the obese one that was left in the corner while guys talked to her thinner, more attractive friends. These were not my observations, but Mitch's, as the night went on, and he decided he would go in for the empathetic route back to her place later, he desperately hoped.
Nice, Mitch. Not only is he saying these things, in hopes to connect with her, and tell her that he, too used to be (not ANYMORE???) the left-out hefty teenager, and the relentlessly-teased awkward athlete. But he is choosing his moments wisely - like after her second extra-strong martini, or when she is about to take a phone call from her ex-husband. You gotta give him some degree of credit - using his survival skills and scrappiness when he needs them the most.
They had both had gastric bypass surgery, they told each other. When I heard that, I understood their reluctance to order -- or do anything -- without the other's agreement -- each needing the other's approval in some degree. "Would you like to order an appetizer?" "Hmm, do you want one?," he would ask her. "I don't care - do you?" This dance happened all night - dinner order, sparkling water or regular water, even with the next drink order... It was getting old fast.
At one point, Mitch DID manage to get to the men's room, leaving an empty wine glass before he got up. So I say to Jane, fully expecting an affirmative answer, "Should we get him another one while he's gone?" She nods reflexively, then must think better, and instead says, "We should probably ask him. I don't want to be presumptuous, and then he'll think I want him to get drunk, and....." Gotcha. So now I am even more confused. But it's time for the bartender to play a little - this is after all, the extent of my entertainment on this Saturday night. Everyone else is drinking and eating without much fanfare, and I DO have a blog to write.
So when Mitch gets back, I say, jokingly, "We were trying to guess whether or not you'd get another Pinot Grigio, but then I told Jane you'd want something more manly - to impress us - right?"
He goofily attempts to play along. "Oh, right." "Well I DID invent my own drink." I think to myself, that this is way too easy, and maybe I shouldn't have exploited his pompousness, self-consciousness and loneliness after all. But it WAS Saturday night. So I ask, "What's it named?"
Now at this point, Jane is looking expectantly, thinking this guy might be cool after all. He likes to drink - and not just Pinot Grigio. And he is giving me all sorts of attention. Maybe it will work out. And then Mitch goes and sabotages himself:
"The Mitch-inator," he announces with such authority that my friends at the opposite end of the bar, whom I have let in on the fact that a blind date is happening at the other end, and there may be some entertainment if they listen carefully, practically spit out their martinis, and look at me like "STOP IT! You can't encourage this guy anymore because we are all way too embarrassed for him."
Not as embarrassed as Jane apparently. And then Mitch adds, "You know like the Terminator, but it's the Mitch-inator."
And the guy sitting next to Mitch, who has remained stoic all night, devoted instead to a Saturday night baseball game, can't even ignore this one, and says to Jane," That must be because it ends all his dates." At this moment, Jason passes by as if coming from nowhere (we know that he sees and hears everything in the whole restaurant even though he may not fill us in on it til the next week, a la his White Board observations.) But with the history between these two, Jason can't resist a real-time comment. He slaps Mitch on the back and with dripping sardonic empathy:"SOOOO good to have you back, ole buddy."
Mitch tries to score some clever points with Jane by asking, "Hey Jason - didn't I see you driving a black Porsche last week? It's a Boxster, right?"
"Ahh, no. It's a 9-11." Jason would normally check this type of ostentatiousness, but can't help himself, due to the fact that the very last time these two were together, Mitch practically spat in his face while telling him he would never return to Brady's. "So what brings you back here, Mitch? It's been awhile?" he asks, trying to take the high road now.
"Just meeting someone special," he purrs as he strokes Jane's shoulder.
Ewww. Ewww. Ewww. Bartender Swoop-in: "So, Jane - shall I make you a Mitch-inator?" She politely declines without even asking again what's in it, and then comments to no one in particular that it's getting late anyway, while glancing at her watch.
Just then Mitch takes her hand in his, turns it over, and slips off her watch. Baseball game-watcher, my friends, and almost everyone else, exchange ashamed looks as if all in on a really bad, really private joke. Mitch, of course, is unflinching and unapologetic.
They debate for the next few minutes on the trajectory of the rest of the date: Go next door and listen to music; stay for another drink; call it a night. I interject that a really great band is playing next door - both to get them out of my sight because I can't take this fumbling, and because I know they cannot make a decision on their own.
At this point, the rest of the bar has totally cleared out, and I am left to clean and re-clean, and find lots of different ways to signify how late it is, including turning the surrounding lights off, blowing out the bar-rail candles, and wondering aloud who's on Letterman tonight.
Finally they take the hint -- or Mitch maybe get his own individualized hint that this date isn't going anywhere else. Though he has tried many different angles, including offering to keep an extra car key for her when she mentions, only because she is looking for something to talk about, that she sometimes misplaces her Minivan keys.
He defeatedly walks her out of the restaurant, I assume to her car to end the date with one last chance at a continuance. But no such luck. Mitch reappears not three minutes later, and actually has the nerve to say:
"You say that band is really good? Wanna grab a drink and talk P90X? I've got lots of pointers."
Somehow, Mitch, I think that is one thing you don't have enough of...
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