When I met my wife for the first time I felt as though I didn’t stand a chance. She was WAY hotter than any girl I’d probably ever breathed the same cubic foot of air space with.
I was a pasty college graduate who hadn’t quite figured out what I wanted to do with myself and consequently was working at the mall in a clothing store called “The Equivalent of Hemorrhoids”… I mean, “The Buckle”. It didn’t take a genius to derive from my situation that I probably wasn’t the best fish in the pond at the time.
My future wife on the other hand was a sexy college student who was about to graduate with a degree in “Dangerous Curves” (I know I know… “Gag me with a spoon Papa K”). Seriously… she needed to come with a warning label. She was the hottest woman I’d ever talked to. It didn’t take a genius to derive from her situation that she WAS THE BEST catch in the pond.
After an evening of getting to know each other (and me taking mental snapshots down the low-slung collar of her shirt) we finally exchanged numbers.
Who got the better end of the deal? Hmmmm… I know!! ME!!
Thankfully… she hadn’t.
I arranged for us to go to dinner and then go to the local comedy club for a few laughs and hopefully, if the stars aligned perfectly, I’d get to see her boobs… but I wasn’t counting on it.
I met her at her restaurant of choice, a place called “Bahama Breeze”. It wasn’t a fine-dining establishment but it wasn’t a Waffle House either. I had worn the best ensemble of clothing I had in my closet at the time: a blue plaid, short sleeve shirt (that I still have) with khakis and Reeboks. She was wearing a tight, blue tank-top with hip-hugger jeans and flip-flops.
We sat in a booth amongst the masses and began with the tedious task of “getting to know each other” with small talk. I’m never one to talk too much so I blanket this fear by asking an excess of questions.
“If you could have your dream house… what would it look like?”
“Tell me about your family.”
“What’s the square root of Pi?”
“Who’s your celebrity crush?”
Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc.
Things ran smoothly. I had made her laugh a few times. She was answering all my questions. My plan for the date was working out great.
Amongst all these questions, we ordered our food and drinks and before too long our salads came out.
I casually adorned my salad with ranch dressing and croutons while asking her more questions about her life and how hard it must be to be so damn hot. With my eyes locked on hers, I diligently kept asking these questions while I began stabbing at my salad.
I don’t remember what the question was I was asking her about. It apparently required a long intro because as I the seconds ticked I continually stabbed at my salad until what constituted THE WHOLE SALAD was run through with my fork.
I was unaware of this development because my eyes were locked on her. I didn’t want to seem uninterested.
It wasn’t until I was done saying whatever it was I was saying and she began to speak that I happened upon this “entire-salad-on-a-fork” situation. The only problem was that I didn’t happen upon it until it was halfway into my mouth. I had remained locked on her the whole time I had stabbed at my salad so what I had assumed was a bite size portion of lettuce, croutons and ranch dressing turned out to be THE ENTIRE SALAD!
Now that the entire salad was beginning to make its way into my mouth and I had noticed my date was looking at me in a particularly confused state, there were only two options that ran through my head:
1. Remove the bite from my mouth and start over… but risk grossing out the babe across the table from me!
2. Continue shoving the head of lettuce into my mouth and hope against hope she wouldn’t be repulsed by my apparent lack of manners!
Either way, the outcome looked bleak.
Ultimately, in those few seconds, I decided that perhaps it would be better if I just continued along with shoving it down my gullet as if, “I eat like this all the time” rather than removing food from my mouth.
So, in much the same way a snake swallows a dead rat, I dislocated my jaw and opened my mouth to its extreme limit and jammed that whole forkful of salad into my mouth. It was so much salad I could barely chew it. I had to reopen my mouth just to make some progress on it.
Eventually, after a few silent moments as she watched me, I was able to reduce the bite to a manageable amount of bolus and swallow it without choking myself. What remained of the bite were a few drips of ranch dressing slowly making their way down my chin and onto my shirt. I wiped what I could from my face and shirt as fast as I could.
I feared the damage had already been done though.
“Well… I have effectively screwed any chance at a second date.” I thought to myself.
But what happened instead surprised me: my date was smiling at me.
“You have no idea,” she said, “How often I do that!” And then she started laughing.
I laughed along with her even though I was still worried this might be a ploy to get herself out of this disaster date… but she never did.
In fact, a few moments after I shoved that entire head of lettuce into my mouth, she dripped a healthy amount of spaghetti sauce onto her shirt. Even though the drip hadn’t resulted from shoving an entire bowl of pasta into her mouth I still felt as though somehow… we were even.
If anything, the incident left me more relaxed and more confident that anything short of shitting my pants wouldn’t be enough to scare this girl away. Hell… she even acted like she liked me!
Incredibly, eight years later we’re married with a two-year-old and still talk about our first date frequently. In our entire eight years of being together… I don’t think I’ve been more embarrassed than that first date where we hardly knew each other.
|Who’d have thought a dislocated jaw and a forkful of salad could have brought us together|
Hey… it worked for me (and I got to see her boobs too… eventually).