Soon after my divorce in 1998 I moved from Montana to Nashville and found, at the age of thirty-five, that dating is very different than it had been when I was in my early twenties. I blame the profligate growth of internet pornography on every weird and freaky dating incident that happened to me in Nashville—and there were way too many.
After a few months in my new home I met a gorgeous man at a local restaurant. Even my girlfriend/dinner partner was in awe of this tall, charming, and handsome man in the navy suit. He was the author of a children’s book and ran some kind of company in the upscale Brentwood area. “Tom” asked me out on a date, and I couldn’t say yes fast enough without sounding completely desperate.
On our first date we went to dinner at a lovely restaurant. Tom was sweet and funny, although he pried a little too much into my personal life and that made me slightly uncomfortable. But after walking me to my car and shaking my hand goodnight, I was impressed enough to say yes to Date number two.
The following week we were to meet at another restaurant in the Cool Springs area of Franklin—very trendy, very romantic. I was running a bit late so I called his mobile phone to let him know. He said, “It’s okay, we’re waiting here at the restaurant.” Strange. We? When I arrived I found him at a cozy table with a GORGEOUS blonde woman. I mean, she was absolutely gorgeous. Like Miss America gorgeous. Like Miss South Carolina but with brains gorgeous. I sat down and looked at them. No one said a word. I finally said to the woman, “Hi! Who are you?” Before she could speak, Tom said, “This is Diana and she’s a friend from Atlanta. She’s here for the weekend.” I said, “Oh! That’s wonderful! Welcome to Nashville!” More uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Finally Tom spoke and it went something like this:
Tom to Ang: I got us a room at the Holiday Inn on Old Hickory Blvd.
Ang to Diana: Oh, is that where you’re staying?
Tom to Ang: No, I got us a room at the Holiday Inn.
Ang to Tom: Oh, you’re both staying there?
Tom to Ang: NO. I GOT US a ROOM at the HOLIDAY INN. US (running his finger through the air around the table).
Ang to Tom: But I don’t need a room, I only live a few miles from . . .
Raised eyebrows all around.
I stood up quickly and tried to think of something to say at that very moment—something that would have been very Ava Gardner or Carole Lombard. But no words came. I grabbed my purse and ran out of the restaurant.
It would have been better for me if the story had ended there; but the next day Tom called and told me I was rude to his friend and that he paid a heckuva lotta money for Diana to be there.
Well, how absolutely inconsiderate of me!
I gave cute names to all my bad dates. I call this one Bring a Hooker to Dinner Man.
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