Immediately following our first date, the fundraiser asked if I'd like to get together again, suggesting Sunday brunch for an activity. In all my time dating, I'd never been on a brunch date, so that sounded like new and exciting territory.
And besides, who doesn't fucking LOVE Sunday brunch? It has all the elements of awesome -- salty proteins, breakfast sweets and free-flowing alcohol. I went to brunch at Masa 14 with A Single Girl and Sassy Marmalade last week and passed out on my couch afterward as if it were 3 a.m. on a Saturday. It was the best day I had all month.
So the fundraiser said he would make a reservation, but the restaurant we would go to would be a surprise. Perfection -- that is exactly the kind of controlled chaos I prefer. We agreed to meet at the Metro stop closest to my house and go from there.
I woke up at 8 on Sunday morning with the intention of going for a bike ride and getting back in just enough time to shower and head out the door, but one look out the window showed the greater D.C.-area to be unrepentantly soggy, so I was all, "Eff that." I decided to drape myself in a Snuggie and kick back with some YouTube videos for an hour or two before getting ready.
When you're sitting in your apartment alone watching TV just waiting to eat, you become very aware of the situation brewing in your digestive system. By the point at which I was to get in the shower, my stomach felt like it was flipping itself inside out.
I texted the fundraiser and told him I'd meet him on the Metro platform, just so there wouldn't be any confusion. At that point, I didn't want ANYTHING standing in the way of me getting a sunny-side-up egg slathered in Hollandaise sauce in my system. I made sure I got there several minutes before his train was due to arrive.
"Are you closer to the front of the train or the back?" I texted.
I told you: I didn't want ANYTHING standing in the way.
"I'd say the front," he replied.
I picked a spot that seemed correct and impatiently watched the clock tick down for the Blue Line's arrival.
Finally, the train roared through, and I spotted the fundraiser through the window of the closest car. He hopped off when the doors opened, and once he saw me we quickly hopped back on again, where he gave me a kiss hello. We grabbed onto poles and began chatting while we rode into the city.
"So where are we going?" I asked.
"Acadiana," the fundraiser revealed. "My friend gave me the recommendation."
Fantastic, I thought. I'd eaten there before to great success, so I knew I'd be satiated. My stomach growled in approval.
And then the fucking train stopped for like EIGHT MILLION YEARS.
"Why are we not moving?!" I wailed, probably a little too crazily for a second date.
"It's another schedule readjustment," the fundraiser informed me. "They did one when I was at the airport, too."
Fuck this piece of shit mass transportation!!! My hangry brain throbbed. More like ASS transportation!*
I have never tried harder in my LIFE to make conversation than I did for the rest of that slow-ass Metro ride to Metro Center, where we eventually disembarked. I couldn't help it; my stomach was just growling so much that I had a hard time concentrating!
Oh, and when we finally disembarked? More effin' rain. So much for having pretty, straight hair -- it was a ball of frizz by the time we got to the restaurant.
Luckily, the fundraiser didn't seem to care. I can tell he thinks I'm funny -- my off-color jokes seem to jive with his sense of humor/do not offend him. And I held it together enough that I don't think he could tell my mind was kind of all over the place.
We got inside and were quickly seated. Our server, who looked like a cocaine dealer from Bratislava (seriously, just take a minute, close your eyes and imagine what that might look like, and you've got our server), took our drink order in a flash -- two blood orange mimosas.
Side note: Acadiana has a three-course prix-fixe brunch with $1 mimosas or Bloody Marys. You can probably tell now where this is going.
I sucked down that mimosa and ordered another. I was still trying to maintain conversation, but I was so uncomfortably hungry that all I could do was listlessly gaze in the direction our Soviet gangster waiter had gone and hope he'd amble back our way with a quickness.
By the time our first course came, I was two mimosas deep. I ordered a third to go with our main course.
And oh man, did I shovel in the food. Acadiana is a fancy place, and I shoveled in that brunch like a hog in heat. It was the opposite of ladylike.
Additionally, I was VERY AWARE of how much the fundraiser was eating. Either that dude had breakfast beforehand, or I am just a gluttonous asshole because I swear to Christ he ate like half of what I ate.
Whatever. Halfway through the main course and the raging hunger had been conquered, so I could finally listen to what the fundraiser had to say.
Apparently... the fundraiser struggles with an anxiety disorder. A pretty big one. He mentioned having to go to the hospital for it from time to time. Obviously, I've struggled with certain issues before, so I understand, but it felt pretty heavy to be hearing all of that on a second date. I took a few deep breaths and tried to be cool about it.
Our Eastern-bloc knife-smuggling server came back over and asked if I wanted another mimosa.
The tipsy had begun to set in. "I'm gonna need like... 30 seconds," I said.
"...why wait?" Ivan the Tippable asked.
I certainly couldn't argue with that logic. "OK, let's do it."
The fundraiser and I had our dessert, then finished up and cabbed back to my apartment. He walked me to my door, kissed me goodbye, and I went upstairs and passed out.
The fundraiser, however, went to Crystal City Sports Pub. Before I fell asleep on my couch for a few hours, I watched him check in on Foursquare. Someone needed to keep the party going, apparently.
All in all, still a fun afternoon. I was a little shaken by all the health stuff, but I'm willing to give it another shot.
*No, you grow up.