Once again, the best thing about my date was the bar we went to. It was a solid dive in Fremont that I would highly recommend. The menu says they have Sunday breakfast for $6.75!!! I always try and get something positive out of my dates, and the bar was it.
#70 showed up in- you guessed it- flannel! I already was disinterested, then he opened his mouth.
"So you work at a community health center? That must be so hardcore!"
I stared him down, knowing exactly what he meant but being so pissed off that I wanted to put him on the spot.
"What do you mean by 'hardcore'?"
He dug himself deeper. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I think the work you do is amazing! It's just, you must see a lot of mental illness and stuff. I mean, I think mental illness is a huge issue that needs to be addressed. It's something I care a lot about on a personal level- I mean, not PERSONAL, but it's something I'm passionate about. There's a huge need for mental health care, which is causing so many of the healthcare disparities..."
Just shut the fuck up. I checked out immediately and spent the next two hours of my life wondering how I am ever going to connect with a man in this city, the American bastion of liberalism, where everyone claims to be progressive but thinks anyone who makes less than $30,000 is exotic. Ironically, I went out with this man specifically because he mentioned "social justice" in his profile. I really couldn't care any less about a man's theories on poverty and service on boards of non-profits. Can he talk with a person from a different background without feeling like he's dangerous and edgy? That's what I want to know.
I finished my beer and he ordered another, turning a 60 minute date into 120. I need to start being bitchier, I thought, or stop wearing makeup to these things. He walked me to my car and said "Thanks for the great conversation!" I wanted to cry.
71 is inevitable, looming on the horizon like a rainy, Seattle winter.
#70 showed up in- you guessed it- flannel! I already was disinterested, then he opened his mouth.
"So you work at a community health center? That must be so hardcore!"
I stared him down, knowing exactly what he meant but being so pissed off that I wanted to put him on the spot.
"What do you mean by 'hardcore'?"
He dug himself deeper. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I think the work you do is amazing! It's just, you must see a lot of mental illness and stuff. I mean, I think mental illness is a huge issue that needs to be addressed. It's something I care a lot about on a personal level- I mean, not PERSONAL, but it's something I'm passionate about. There's a huge need for mental health care, which is causing so many of the healthcare disparities..."
Just shut the fuck up. I checked out immediately and spent the next two hours of my life wondering how I am ever going to connect with a man in this city, the American bastion of liberalism, where everyone claims to be progressive but thinks anyone who makes less than $30,000 is exotic. Ironically, I went out with this man specifically because he mentioned "social justice" in his profile. I really couldn't care any less about a man's theories on poverty and service on boards of non-profits. Can he talk with a person from a different background without feeling like he's dangerous and edgy? That's what I want to know.
I finished my beer and he ordered another, turning a 60 minute date into 120. I need to start being bitchier, I thought, or stop wearing makeup to these things. He walked me to my car and said "Thanks for the great conversation!" I wanted to cry.
71 is inevitable, looming on the horizon like a rainy, Seattle winter.
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