The Shortstop Flop

I met Tim, a hedge fund financial analyst, on Bumble. I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly he cut through the usual monotonous red tape that is sending mundane texts back and forth via the dating app and invited me out for an evening that same week.

Upon arrival I approached Tim, who was sitting at the bar. He immediately stood up to receive me, and I was utterly astonished by the size of this boy man.

My petite frame stands just shy of 5’1, so unlike most women in the online dating community I am not often concerned with details such as the height of an individual because the last time I met someone shorter than me they were 11 years old.

To his credit, I didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer a number that was clearly fabricated at any point in our conversation or on his profile.

Donned in my ballet flat shoes, I stood about 1 and 1/2 inches taller than Tim.  Usually the one to feel particularly dainty next to 99% of guys I meet, I suddenly felt unfamiliarly monstrous towering over this miniature human.

No problem though! What does height matter if this could be someone I have amazing chemistry with, right?

The waitress showed us to our table, and right away Tim and I got to talking. After sharing the details of how our days went at the office we began discussing what TV shows we were looking forward to watching now that the weather was becoming crisper by the day.

“So are you into Mad Men?” He asked.

“That is actually one I couldn’t really get into for some reason despite the hype,” I replied.

Strike one,” he said rather aggressively.

“Strike one? So it’s a strike against someone when they don’t like the same TV show?”

The waitress came by to take our beverage order and Tim recommended I sample the Sazerac whiskey drink from the signature cocktail menu.

“I am more of a vodka or gin drinker. Not so much into whiskey.”

Strike TWO,” he said fervently.

“OK so the whole ‘strike’ thing has got to stop. It’s pretty arrogant and the fact that you put ‘strikes’ against people who don’t share your opinions on things like liquor and TV shows is pretty stupid.”

Tim offered up a pathetic apology and chalked it up to being uneasily nervous. I accepted and was prepared to start fresh.

“So you said you work in fashion merchandising? Is that even a real job or just one of those things girls get into because they like playing with clothes and stuff?” He asked.

For the sake of not having to hear him speak I sarcastically conceded and said he was absolutely correct. My bachelor’s degree in merchandizing and my master’s in supply chain management was all because I just want to ‘play with clothes’ all day.

Begrudgingly, I finished my meal despite that fact that Tim had completely spoiled my appetite and when we exited the building I had every intention of making a beeline for the 6 train to escape the atrocious company I had just endured.

“So if you want to grab another drink there is this whiskey bar I really like down the street. Although you don’t drink whiskey so I would probably be embarrassed bringing you there only to have you order a glass of wine.”

“Tim, I have zero desire to spend one more minute with you to be honest. I think you were probably the rudest person I have ever met in my 27 years on this earth. I am not saying that to be a bitch, I am being honest because I think someone needs to bring it to your attention in order for you to ever have any hope of finding a girlfriend.”

“Well I guess that is strike three then!” He said with a smile.

“Oh you struck out long ago, believe me.”

I have never been so happy to be back in my tiny studio apartment.

The next morning it appeared that Tim was not only rude, but he was also comprehensively ignorant.


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