I arrived at a wine bar quietly tucked away in the West Village to meet a northern California transplant named Karl for the first time.
According to his profile pictures on Hinge, Karl seemed to flawlessly fit the bill for me as far as physical attraction is concerned.
He was preppy, but not obnoxiously so, stood just over 6’2 and was clearly well-educated as he had recently finished his MBA at Stanford.
I too was a recent MBA graduate who had completed a stint living in San Francisco, so I surmised that we would inevitably have much in common to fill a conversation over a bottle pinot.
Karl was seated and waiting for me when I arrived. He stood up to offer an embrace…and then I saw it…
The horror of golden brown tresses wound tightly together sitting atop the crown of his head.
A man bun.
This was definitely not depicted in his photos.
Attempting to keep an open mind, I thought if we did get along that one day I could possibly
shame him into cutting it off convince him into trying a more suitable hair style.
Karl was a self-proclaimed wino with an affinity for red vintages. Being more of a whiskey gal myself, I told him to feel free to make a selection based on his preferences as my palate was clearly not as sophisticated.
He found a bottle he seemed particularly enthusiastic about and assured me I was in for a real treat.
Our waitress performed an impressively sensational wine service as she carefully decanted the bottle and poured it into two long-stemmed globes of crystal for us to taste.
Karl was extremely pleased, while I secretly thought it tasted no better than the $17 boxed wine I had while partying at the Jersey shore the previous weekend.
The conversation between Karl and I was disappointingly stale. Being the generally amiable person that I am I found it oddly difficult to connect with him on any subject matter whatsoever.
As the date came to an end I thought it was clear it would be the last time Karl and I would make each other’s acquaintance.
The check arrived and I offered to pay half my share. Karl, assumably agreeing that the evening was a bust, gladly accepted my attempt.
When the bill came back I reached for a pen to sign my receipt and be on my merry way when I was hit with the sudden feeling of shock and horror.
My total came to $212.50.
Two-hundred twelve dollars. And fifty cents.
“There must be some mistake,” I said, siphoning through the multiple papers in the black book before me searching for an explanation for this astronomical amount.
“Ah, the bottle of Bordeaux we got was actually a pretty special year for that vineyard and a particularly rare bottle, so I couldn’t pass it up. I guess it was a bit pricey,” he admitted.
With a blatantly obvious eye roll I resentfully put my John Hancock on the piece of paper.
Before we made it out of the bar I had a Lyft on its way to my rescue, but Karl had other plans.
“So, did you want to come back to my place for a night cap or two?” He asked.
Never was I so happy for the arrival of a Lyft.