12 - Jolly Green

The moment you've all been waiting for...

Alas, our month-long journey comes to an end with the final installment of the 12 Dates of Cringe-mas. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll see it’s all been leading up to this. No, really, go back and read them from the very first post. He’s in almost every one. This date is hella long, so you might want to grab a snack before you start reading. You’ll be here a while.

Jolly Green started off as a joke. While vacationing with my sister in Miami, the land of bipolar weather disorder, I convinced her to let me make her a Plenty of Fools profile or whatever. She agreed. And let the swiping begin!

I used for her a similar profile filtering system for myself. She lives in San Antonio, and we’re typically not into the same type of guy, but my system would still apply: Swiftly swipe left if he’s short, fat, or has kids.

Up popped the profile of an unnervingly attractive, alluring man. His photos oozed confidence and manliness. Oh, and he’s 6’10. Jokingly, I said “This dude is hot! How creepy do you think it would be if I wrote him as you saying 'Hey, uhh, my sister thinks you’re hot, what’s your number?' ” We laughed.

“I dare you,” my sister said through her laughter.

I don’t shy away from a dare. I'm doing it!

I dug into his profile and see a chalk drawing of DocMcstuffins in his pics. He did write in his profile that he’s into black women, but cartoon toddlers are a bit of a stretch. I re-read his profile and confirm he is indeed someone’s father. I was strongly opposed to dudes with kids, but I’d already resolved to send this crazy message. It’s hilarious and will make a good story. Besides, what kind of lame man would reply to such foolishness? Certainly not a tall, handsome, confident man like the one in the pics. So I send.

But what I failed to consider is - this is a dating app and my sister is a smoke show. Like a Criss Angel show in Vegas-smoke just everywhere. Rich chocolate skin, large cat-eyes and she’s in great shape. How could he not write back?

And that he did. Despite me living in Dallas and him in San Antonio, Jolly Green and I began a texting affair. Delightedly, we found we share similar interests.We both enjoy boxing, love the original Twilight Zone (up out my face with that 80s remake garbage) and nerd out at Greek mythology. I enjoyed his wit and wisdom, especially through the perspective of a single father raising two small girls on his own.

About the kids dealbreaker-like I said, I was an immediate swipe lefter on dudes with offspring. Kids can be nasty and rude, but that’s not why I don’t date dudes with kids. Baby mama drama is something I want absolutely zero involvement with, but that’s not why I don’t date dudes with kids.

I don’t date dudes with kids because I once fell in love with a pair of amazing little girls. My ex-fiance was very close to his family, and thus I spent a lot of time with his 6- and 3-year-old nieces. I took these adorable girls to the park; I read them bedtime stories.The girls’ dad is black and their white mom struggled with their kinky, curly hair so I’d come over and braid their hair on Wednesdays. They became my family. I loved them. They loved me. Then things went way south with their uncle. Handcuffs and police sirens type south.

Losing a guy in a horrific breakup is part of the danger of dating, a casualty of war. Losing two adorable girls with curly afro-puffs who love to play “I Spy” and have never done anything wrong? It's excruciating. I miss them terribly still. I don't want to feel that again.

I resolved to not think too much about the kids element. Jolly Green and I were just texting, anyway.

And text we do. Nearly every day throughout. I’d send selfies of me being lame, he’d send pics of him and his twin daughters (oh so very cute). Our conversations get pretty involved: past relationships, sexuality, our greatest fears and ambitions. We even developed an amazing game in which I’d send him pictures of yoga poses and he’d send me a video attempting to do them. He was so bad. My gosh, this man has an overabundance of limbs. Jolly Green was self-assured enough to laugh at himself, and comfortable enough to make fun of me (which he did often).

I realized I was starting to actually become attracted to the giant living in my phone. I wondered what his hands felt like; I wondered about his kiss. As a celibate individual, such wonderings are a big deal to me. And rare. Like, finding a parking spot at the movie theater the weekend Black Panther came out type rare.

After about a month of conversation, I head down to visit my friends and family in San Antonio for a weekend. Of course, I let him know I’m flying down, and we plan a date for Saturday night. I even broke character and bought a new dress ($14.88 on Amazon, don’t get too excited, y’all) for the occasion.

Given I’d spent a month developing my dating skills, you’d think I’d be calm, cool and collected in the days and hours leading up to our date. I was not. I was freaking the BLEEP out. The barrage of texts I sent to my amused friends during that time: What if I can’t stop sweating? What if I have gas? What if he thinks I’m awkward? What if he cancels last minute? What will he do with his hands if we make out? What if there’s a hurricane? What if I have an allergic reaction in the middle of our date? What if he’s actually as great as he seems?

I was a neurotic mess and I’d left my Xanax in Dallas. Damn it.

I texted him that I’d like to get one drink, maybe two and we’ll see if we both still like each other and take it from there. Cheap, chill and non-committal, just how I like it.

He replied, “I want to get sushi. Is that too much commitment for you?” Oh, and swoon. See how he went all manly there and took over our whole plans? Me gusta. So we agreed to get sushi at 8:00 that night instead.

I packed on a face full of makeup, then threw on some strappy heels and a charcoal dress that put the va-va-in the voom. My sister said, “Wow. Your body is banging in that dress!” I know she wasn’t trying to be nice because she followed with, “I don’t like your makeup, though. You have on too much.” Great. I was going for cute face, slim waist, with a big behind, but apparently I looked like a sexy drag queen.

Feeling equally self-confident and self-conscious, I drove to the sushi place, willing my sweat glands shut. I park my rental (At 7:59, mind you. I should get a trophy for this.) and walk into the restaurant.

The moment of truth.

There, against the back wall of the dimly lit Japanese restaurant sits Jolly Green. He sees me sauntering over and rises to hug me as I walk toward our booth. My gosh, does he rise.

As I near the booth, I recall what my swipe rights had given me on these dates over the past month:

12 vegans vouching

11 patrons playing

10 ballers balling

9 crabs a-crawling

8 yuppies yowling

7 shrimp a-frying

6 spacecats jumping

5 giggling teens

4 French phrases

3 pet bots

2 Rastafarians

And a single dad as tall as a tree.

Oh, he's absolutely lovely. Face full of freckles, he smiles down at me with nice, straight teeth. He's even dressed like an actual man in a checkered button-down and dark jeans. I'd been a little worried he'd show up in a Toy Story shirt or cargo shorts and have me looking like a fool in my stilettos. But no. He looks great.

We sit and our conversation reveals his personality is (mostly) delightfully bigger than mine. There’s actually a chance he might have a touch of tall white man syndrome. Working in the the tech industry, I’m familiar with the condition. He talks over me, which irritates me, but it's better than the alternative. He’s also kind of preachy, which annoys me, but it makes sense given his fatherhood. Despite these two flaws, it's apparent he knows how to conduct a meaningful conversation. He challenges me when I make statements with which he doesn’t agree and he inquires deeper when I make statements he wants to better understand. I like to be challenged and I like to be understood.

Hot dog, I’m having a good time with this hazel-eyed hunk. We keep forgetting to order our food, we’re so wrapped up in conversation. Our waitress, a lovely woman with high cheekbones came back four times before we’d paused enough to take a look at the menu and order our rolls.

We finally order and our food comes quickly. The true test - can you share food? We do. Of course, his shrimp tempura roll is better than my tuna crunch. Why are dudes so much better at ordering food? In my fatness, I probably ate too much of his, but he didn’t seem to mind.

A couple of glorious hours go by and our waitress returns to our table, asking if our checks will be together or separate. This is restaurant code for “ya’ll don’t have to go home, but you have to get the hell out of here.”

“Together,” he says to her definitively.

“Thank you” I say, reaching for my purse “I can pay for my-"

“Hell no,” he interjects. “I don’t know why you’re even reaching for your purse. Stop.”

And that was that. Jolly Green signs my giddy heart away on the check and asks, “Do you want to go get a drink?”

Sir, I want to go anywhere with you, I think. “Absolutely.”

We walk to a hot mess of a karaoke bar nearby and take a seat in a far corner at a tiny table clearly on its last leg. We laugh under the blue and pink neon lights, swapping stories about everything from our first kiss to our favorite songs from the ’90s. He makes fun of my taste in music (Iris is one of the best songs of its decade!) and I tease him for the girly drink he ordered (Wtf? Smirnoff, bro? You Iced yourself?). It’s great. Everything is great.

Mid-conversation he reaches across the table and holds my hand. That does it. I am done for. Somehow I keep myself from fainting by clinging to the rickety round table upon which our interlaced fingers rested. Holding hands is one of the sweetest, most connected physical gestures two people can share, in my opinion. More than kissing, more than hugging. To me, there's a different kind of intimacy in a hand hold. The moment is pleasant, uncomfortable and vulnerable.

I feel new feelings in new places.

After about two hours laughing and talking over the off-pitch serenading in the background he says, “Do you want to talk outside?”

“Sure,” I lie. For those of you who have the luxury of never visiting San Antonio in the summertime: It's sweltering. Don't do it. Wait until October. No matter what they tell you about the Alamo or the Riverwalk, don't you visit my hometown during the summer. It's 100+ degrees during the day, 85+ at night. Not quite as horrendous as hell (which is probably slightly more tolerable than Houston), but still oh-so-uncomfortably hot and humid.

So hell no, I don't want to talk outside and risk a sweatstorm. I just want to be near this dashing man.

We walk outside and end up sitting in his truck, further prying into each other’s lives with our questions. He shares some rather unsavory details about his past, again with the tall white man syndrome signs. He’s not all good, but he’s certainly honest.

At one point he reaches into his glove compartment, his hand brushing against my thigh. “Nice try,” I quip.

“Ha,” he retorts, “If I wanted to grab your meaty thigh, I would do it.”

Gasp! “Did you just call my thigh ‘meaty’?” I exclaim.

“Yes, because it is,” he says jokingly. But he’s not joking.

I can do nothing but laugh. This jerk is a dream. Everything I’m self conscious about as a woman-my sarcasm, my size, my dominance-this man quells simply by being. His personality is bigger than mine, he speaks with more command than I do, and he’s a take-charge kind of guy in every way. I was free to be 100% myself on this date. I even farted a couple of times. It was glorious.

It’s almost 1AM and he says, “It’s late. I’d better walk you to your car now.”

I panic. I don’t want our night to end, especially since we live in different cities. And I did not want that man to leave my life without a kiss. But how does a respectable woman tell a man she wants his tongue in her mouth?

Well, hell, I don’t know. All I did was sit there in the passenger seat and stutter. I’m fumbling words like Porky Pig in stilettos, tripping over my tongue like the black female version of The King’s Speech. I could form no actual words in my embarrassment. Fortunately, he speaks weirdo and picked up what I was uh-uh-uh p-p-pu-putting uh-uh-d-d-d-down.

“Do you want to come hang out at my house?” he asks.

“Yes,” I manage.

I follow him to his house in a nice San Antonio suburb. He gives me a tour, pictures of him and his little girls hang on the walls. He put on American Made starring Tom Cruise. Btw, I can’t handle Tom Cruise movies. Did y’all know he’s like 5’6? Oh, and not a good actor? I just can’t.

We’re talking, laughing, not even watching the movie.

Jolly Green grabs my hand.

I inch a bit closer to him.

He turns his face toward mine.

I try to remember to breathe.

His eyes shift to my lips.

My heart beat thumps.

He lifts my face toward his.

I definitely stop breathing.

Then he places his lips on mine.

And that was that.

Cue the swooniest swoon ever swooned.

I have nothing else to share with you all about that amazing, hot, thrilling and immensely enjoyable night in San Antonio with an amazing, hot, thrilling and immense man.

Test 1: Passed with flying colors.

Test 2: Hell yes. The date lasted several hours, so technically we went on at least 2 anyway.

Test 3: Where is the sign up sheet? I’ll take two, please.

Verdict: Jolly Green and I still talk often. He can be a bit inconsistent and I am definitely a bit weird, but I still think he's pretty great. And he's either really great at pretending he thinks I'm great (y’all know how dudes are) or he thinks I'm pretty cool, too. We've plans to see each other again swoon. I mean, soon.

That's all there is. There isn't anymore.