Leveling Up

Jun 17

Vol 3: That time I went on a date with a high level man

First, let me start out by saying that I went on a date with a guy that I met online and had almost zero contact with. Not a lot of back and forth so I’d even dare say it was more like a blind date. Having said that, unlike traditional dating where you’d meet someone and then they’d ask you out (so you were already past the ugly looks, shitty manners, poor personal hygiene, etc), nowadays we have the extra special privilege of also having to worry about these things too when first meeting someone. We all know that no matter how much someone looks like their internet photos, they really don’t. Mannerisms and context certainly change all that. Throw in photoshop and the whole things a bust. Which, if we’re all being honest here, is my #1 biggest fear. I always think my date is going to show up, see me, and say something outlandish like “I didn’t know you were a fat girl”. My pics are current and obviously I’ve picked the absolute cutest ones, because why would you showcase that pic of you throwing up on St. Patty’s Day, right?! I haven’t rounded the ass or manipulated the double chin, but a girl knows her angles. So when I finally went on a date, one of the first I’ve had in years, it was that much more stressful.

My date, seemingly very attractive and energetic, had a pretty vague profile. Picture of adorable kids, check. Even more adorable dog, check check. Rugged man shit photos and a Yellowstone-esque beard, triple check. In fact, if I wasn’t in this whole new-life-new-bitch transitional phase, I wouldn’t have even agreed to meet. There was something about his profile that seemed too good, like he was so sure of himself that he didn’t even have to fluff his profile and that can only come from a real brick-and-mortar type of confidence. Regardless, I said sure, great, let’s meet up expecting a meet and greet at the bar, 45 minutes tops. A cider and a double IPA to rip the bandage off, and I’d be on my way. Imagine my surprise when he dropped me a pin and told me to meet him…at a mother fucking hiking trail. Welllll fuckkkkkkk.

I’m sitting at an intersection, both physically and emotionally. On the one hand, he seems fun and maybe I’ll have a good time. On the other, I’m thinking about that chick that met some guy online, went on a hike, and was thrown from the cliff. And just as I’m about to turn around and go home, I make eye contact with a dirty sweatshirt and some hiking boots and decided to throw cardio to the wind. In my defense, it’s probably best that he know the totality of my physical abilities now before he falls in love with my wit and intelligence and starts planning Tough Mudders and weekend 5ks. So I show up to the location and as I scour the parking lot for a place to park, I see an incredibly fit guy in the shortest hoochie daddy shorts I’ve ever laid eyes on. In fact, I’m pretty sure those shorts are outlawed in the state of Texas in at least six counties. I take an extra deep breath as I relegate myself to the horror that I know is about to be our “hike”.

I’m throwing my clothes on in an effort to conceal the natural lusciousness that is me: tits, arms and stomach first. Just as I accomplish my task, the sweetest golden retriever pops around the bed of my truck followed by a pair of basically naked legs in silky blue hotpants. My immediate attention is on the dog, and I spend five minutes bathing him in pets before I even acknowledged my Tinder date’s existence. There’s an immediate vibe and, if we’re all being honest here, I think it’s disappointment. Could be a lack of confidence on my part, but it feels a lot like he thinks he’s been duped by another catfish hit and run. A few words are exchanged before we set on down the mountain, but something in the pit of my stomach is churning and the lack of direct eye contact or how fast he is scaling these precipices leads me to believe that I am not exactly what he had anticipated. Mama didn’t raise no bitch so I am going to finish this pain staking climb, come hell or high water, and get the fuck out of there before anyone can say happy hour.

To describe the trail as difficult would be like saying running a marathon with no legs is easy. Loose rocks cascade down the corridor and flashbacks of all the 12 times I ended up in the hospital flood my mind. I am terrified; I have no insurance, and no super hot guy with strong quads is gonna make me risk my life. Three feet down I call to him, “Yeah, I don’t think so” as my boots slide down the loose dirt. I feel like a coward, and a fool, but most importantly an alive coward-fool. We make the small loop down to the waterfall bathed in teenagers. He’s barely broken a sweat, and I’m huffing like a poached rhinoceros. I pray he’ll say let’s do this again or something equally ridiculous and let me slink away with a modicum amount of dignity, but noooo. Instead he offers yet ANOTHER trail, one more geared toward fat people, or the handicaps, either way. Just as I begin to grimace my mouth and shake my head no, he says something-something-brewery and “you can ride with me, it’s safe”. Well, what’s this you say about a brewery? I mean, I guess if it’s wheelchair accessible. Might as well be handing out puppies and free wifi from a blacked out white van.

Once in the car, I think perhaps he’s toying with me, making me suffer for his own petty amusement. As if the sound of me breathing over the gushing waterfall wasn’t enough, now I’m forced to sit less than 24 inches from him and pretend to take dainty breaths as my lungs begin to degrade inside my chest cavity. But there is something to be said for the eventual submission that this is NOT a date, no one’s getting naked, and I could finally be myself. On the next trail, we come across other normal people. When I say normal, I mean not freakishly fit, just regular ol’ people with sneakers on. We get to rapping and the guy offers my date a beer, which he declines. Immediately, the wheels are turning and I think Wait, what the f—, I want a beer! What if this guy doesn’t offer me one because Superfit said no! I’m in full mental breakdown and then, a half second later, he asks me if I would like one, to which I respond “Well, I mean, I guess if no one else is going to. I’d hate for you to drink alone.” He hands me the slender ice cold Ultra. The sound of the popping cap feels so right it was almost like coming home, and I proceed to pour the low-cal refreshment down my atrophied throat. My spirit is immediately lifted as if saved by an angel, and I once again have the strength to go on, maybe all the way back up the trail to the car and home. Then my date, outnumbered by fun people, recants and reluctantly has a beer as well.

Down the trail, one beer deep and praying to God for many more to come, something has shifted. Personalities are being uncovered, sexual jokes are being exchanged, and there is an obvious disturbance in the force. This had started out as clearly one of my worse dates (we all know about Leaky Eye and Dr. Softhands) and shifted to actually being enjoyable. Finally we embark on the brewery and although I fully expect to drop a six pack off the jump, I find myself embroiled in a deep and sincere conversation about Arab radiologists and bitch beers. I’m laughing, we’re engaging, and then my date put his foot on my barstool. For those who don’t know, this is the modern day equivalent of holding hands in the movies. It’s the proverbial dipstick for non-platonic interest. We’d come full circle from get down that mountain cow to you might be really cute with all the lights off in a mere hours time.

With beers comes more talking and false bravado, as it always does. We’re vibing, letting our guards down, and end up on the subject of dating, more specifically dating at this age: what’s available, who’s on these sites, and basically why we should give up and die. Up to this point my date has gone from disinterested and obtuse to engaging, funny, interesting, charismatic, and overall super fuckable. I even think we could be Instagram friends but then those earlier thoughts begin to circle around, and I wonder why Superfit is so nice, so funny, so interesting, and so obviously reciprocating with me. I mean, I’m sure they have no shortage of girls with “great personalities” in New Mexico. As I ponder, I realize he’s telling me that there aren’t high level men like him around anymore and compares his obviously svelte physique to the dad bods running around, again instilling in me that I wasn’t overthinking earlier while sweat beads rolled down my belly fat. Then he touches on what a high level woman is, to which I’m still not entirely sure, but looks were most definitely a factor. And as I sit across the table from this smoking hot dude with pretty eyes, nice teeth, and a penchant for high quality chicks (allegedly), I wonder if he is including me in the pool of low-level woman scouring the internet for a baby daddy.

In the end, as much as I’m a woman who suffers from the insecurities of her appearance, her less than stellar body, her unstable place in life, her fledgling career as a blog writer, I also know that I, too, bring something special to the table, even if its not long legs or petite features. But at the end of the day I’m still a woman, and he was still a hot guy in running shorts, so I took him back to my trailer and fed him my pork chop because fit guys gotta eat and fat girls need love too.