Lord of the Date by Amanda Caswell

Lord of the Date by Amanda Caswell

I don’t usually date men at work. I’ve only done it three or five times and every time it turned sour, anxiety ensued. The possibility of bumping into an Ex while doing mundane office tasks like using the Xerox Machine or stealing office supplies, left me skittish. Avoiding all common areas, I now thaw Hot Pockets in my desk drawer. After a break up, the audacity of dating a person you see every day in the confines of 427 cubic feet becomes an obvious mistake.

I thought I had completely sworn off dating in the workplace until I was asked out again. I figured this one was different, not just because he had bright red hair and the geometric girth of a school bus, but because he only came into the office on Fridays. We never spoke to each other in person; our conversations were online regardless if he was telecommuting or sitting at his desk within earshot. The day he asked me out, everyone had left early due to the first major storm of the winter rolling in. It wasn’t even noon and there was a foot of snow on the ground. Just as I considered heading home to spend the rest of the day in sweatpants, TGIChris instant messaged me:

iloveAsianchickxxx: What are you doing tonight?
thepnutbutterkid: Staying in. Staying warm.
iloveAsianchickxxx: Would you like to go to a Holiday Show at Harvard with me? It's a Christmas Show.

As lame as it sounded, I was intrigued. All the snow had put me in the Christmas spirit.

thepnutbutterkid: Sure. I'd love to.
iloveAsianchicks: Really? You'll go? Awesome.

I headed out of the office early to shop for a new dress. Despite the Winter Weather Advisory I had to get something sexy and festive for the Hot Date. I spent most of the afternoon going from shop to shop, trudging through the snow, looking for the Perfect Christmas Dress. Finally I found one - A bright red strapless one from Saks. It was perfect, and with the right amount of padded bra and perhaps a glue gun, I imagined it might stay put.

The time I spent prepping for the date was in vain since I had to wait 75 freezing minutes for the bus. Wanting to look sexy, I opted for the shorter jacket and heels. Attempting to keep my hair perfect, I wore no hat.

“Are the buses actually running?” I anxiously said turning to the bundled up, androgynous blob next to me. 
“Hmph!” came a muffled groan from under It’s scarf.

By the time the bus came, and I traipsed to the bar to meet Chris, I looked like a drowned kitten. Not even a sex kitten. I looked like the ugly runt of the litter.  Worse, Chris picked a table with bar stools so I unintentionally flashed the bar whenever I moved my mini skirt clad body. I just kept smiling and brushing my wet, matted down hair out of my face.

He began the conversation as I picked an icicle out of my hair.

"I'm moving out of the country in a month. To Africa possibly or India maybe."

That’s not what I was hoping he would say. Any prospect of this date going anywhere was dashed; I was not interested in a new pen pal. But I played nice and said,

“Oh how cool!”
“I know, right? I mean, it’s weird because I only date Asian girls. Well, I’m an equal opportunity dater. But I’m not attracted to American chicks.”


Once when getting out of a cab at 2 am, the driver asked me if I was Italian. The broken ceiling light and my slurred speech might have made me appear foreign. Truth being, I was as Italian as a can of Chef Boyardee. Still, I took it as a compliment. As Chris went on about Hot Russian Ladies, I wondered what nationality he thought I was. 

“By the way, your ticket was $55. I’ll take cash,” he said handing me a ticket from his wallet. Was I his date or a wingman? I really couldn’t tell.

We finished up our drinks and headed to the theater; it was packed considering the two feet of snow outside. We took our seats in the second row just as the lights went down. Chris leaned over to me and gleefully said, “This is an audience participation show. It’s why I paid extra for these good seats!”

The show began and actors old and young clogged to Christmas Carols. With each new song, a different winter scene accompanied a folky tribute to St. Nicolas and Baby Jesus. I was enjoying myself. Soon, we were told to look on page 5 of our program and sing along- in Latin. Chris was into it; the way someone really gets in to Rick Astley alone in their apartment. I smiled and sang too.

Then, from the stage a billowing voice said, "EVERYBODY UP! Out of your seats! Everybody DANCE!" Before I could understand what that meant, Chris grabbed my hand and pushed me into the conga line forming. Everybody was conga-ing and clogging in absolute merriment. Every ounce of boob I had held my dress up as I awkwardly jaunted around the room with the gay crowd. The pattern of singing in Latin, followed by clogging, followed by singing and clogging, lasted for an eternity of 4 hours. After the show, Chris asked me if I wanted to get a drink. Exhausted from the Lord of the Christmas Dance and emotionally drained, I politely declined and headed home.

The date ended just as it began, freezing at a bus stop wishing for a good date.