I went on a date with a British guy once. He was only visiting and it was his last night in town, but I like a good story and I’m a bit hopeless on occasion, so I went out with him.
He was reading a book in a bar when I walked in. Dostoyevsky, no less. I have no idea who does that – Englishmen I suppose. He was typically British and made fun of many things I had to say and my wish to google most everything I didn’t already know, and eventually banned me from doing so. Which meant I wasn’t able to look up directions to the place I wanted to take him for dinner, so we wandered into another bar where he made me order and I – of course – accidentally picked the worst pizza on the menu.
But we talked and I made him repeat lines from “Pride and Prejudice,” because when you’re on a date with an English guy you’ll probably never see again, doesn’t that make the most sense? He obliged and provided me with more laughs than I can recall.
Then he told me I would fit in well in England because everyone kind of walks around with a level of pseudo-embarrassment happening and it’s mostly fun to just make it worse. He also called me a pixie and – dreams.
So we talked and talked a little more and I said something so dumb his only response was to give me a hug because whatever I said was so pitiful.
And the night continued and then the night ended. And I laughed so much, which I hadn’t done in awhile before then. And it was mostly just a sweet evening.
I don’t really know why I wanted to remember that story today, other than it was a silly night I thoroughly enjoyed in the name of crossing something off my bucket list.
And sometimes I think that’s okay. To have fun in the name of a story.