The man who I met on Superbowl Sunday showed up to our first date wearing flannel, bearded, AND sporting a brand new nasal fracture that he acquired while overzealously celebrating the Seahawks' victory. And you know what? I didn't even care. It was a damn. good. time.
Conversation was easy from the beginning, and I wasn't awkwardly looking at the time on my phone or planning my escape route. He was smart, funny, outdoorsy, and creative, and while I've never cared much about the educational background of my dates, having a degree from an Ivy League college certainly doesn't hurt.
I couldn't believe how well the date was going, and I thanked God for giving me the drunken courage to ask strangers ridiculous questions about sports games. Then in the middle of the date, he asked me where I lived in the neighborhood.
"On 13th, in between Republican and Harrison."
His eyes popped open. "What building?"
That was when we discovered that my best first date EVER in Seattle has lived one floor below me in my building ever since I moved here in 2011.
That's right. Three years, sixty two first dates, and hundreds of hours wasted on boring-as-fuck men culminated in a fantastic date with my downstairs neighbor who I met at a bar. I don't believe in fate, but WOW does the world work in mysterious ways.
"Pinky swear," he said as he offered his little finger, "that whatever happens we'll still be cool if we see each other in the building."
We pinky shook.
The decision to walk me home was easy, and going up the hill to our apartments he stopped in the sidewalk, held my hand, and kissed me. It was the first date I've always wanted in Seattle: the chemistry, the conversation, the passion, the possibility that something might actually develop, that I could stop blogging and be content in a meaningful relationship for the first time in so long.
We ended up in his apartment making out, talking, watching Olympics, and making out some more. Then I walked upstairs- fifteen seconds- to my own bed and fell asleep.
And they lived happily ever after???
Conversation was easy from the beginning, and I wasn't awkwardly looking at the time on my phone or planning my escape route. He was smart, funny, outdoorsy, and creative, and while I've never cared much about the educational background of my dates, having a degree from an Ivy League college certainly doesn't hurt.
I couldn't believe how well the date was going, and I thanked God for giving me the drunken courage to ask strangers ridiculous questions about sports games. Then in the middle of the date, he asked me where I lived in the neighborhood.
"On 13th, in between Republican and Harrison."
His eyes popped open. "What building?"
That was when we discovered that my best first date EVER in Seattle has lived one floor below me in my building ever since I moved here in 2011.
That's right. Three years, sixty two first dates, and hundreds of hours wasted on boring-as-fuck men culminated in a fantastic date with my downstairs neighbor who I met at a bar. I don't believe in fate, but WOW does the world work in mysterious ways.
"Pinky swear," he said as he offered his little finger, "that whatever happens we'll still be cool if we see each other in the building."
We pinky shook.
The decision to walk me home was easy, and going up the hill to our apartments he stopped in the sidewalk, held my hand, and kissed me. It was the first date I've always wanted in Seattle: the chemistry, the conversation, the passion, the possibility that something might actually develop, that I could stop blogging and be content in a meaningful relationship for the first time in so long.
We ended up in his apartment making out, talking, watching Olympics, and making out some more. Then I walked upstairs- fifteen seconds- to my own bed and fell asleep.
And they lived happily ever after???
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