So, I went out on a date night with my fiance the other night. I wanted sushi for dinner and she was in, so we decided to head out for a little candle light meal. A little dancin’ and romancin’.
Right as Marisa is finishing getting ready, it starts raining, so even though it was only a mile walk we decided we had to take an uber. As we walk down the stairs of our 90 year old apartment and the rain leaks through the ceiling creating a massive puddle, ON THE STAIRS, we finally get to the door leading outside. As soon as we get to the door is when it starts pouring raining. It was that ten minutes during the storm that the skies just open up. I open up the umbrella and we walk around the building to wait in the parking lot for the uber.
I’m holding the umbrella above both of our heads which every guy knows that means shes 100% covered and you are about 25% covered. Luckily the uber driver comes quickly. We pile into the car, shoes wet through to the socks, shirt stuck to my back, hair totally ruined. I sit down realizing we should’ve just waited another five minutes for the rain to start. (I may have lied about the hair part)
We get to the sushi restaurant, and I take our umbrella and put it under the chair in the waiting area outside, because it would be rude to put it under my table obviously. We sit down and as I look out the door I say to Marisa, “there’s a good chance that umbrella is gone by the time we finish dinner.” By the way, if you can’t tell, THAT IS FORESHADOWING.
Sushi was okay, nothing special, every person in the restaurant was white, which is a bad sign when you go out to a Japanese restaurant, because right off the bat you know there is no authenticity. Not that I know what AUTHENTIC Japanese food tastes like, but I know that it doesn’t come from the hands of a man named Bob. My old sushi guy from Vegas was Nobu. I don’t know what that means or if it was even his real name, but it definitely makes for a more Japanese feel.
After dinner, we pay the bill and decide we are going to go out. My future wife, who really can’t hang at night time, needed an espresso if we were going to continue on, so we had to call about 9 places before one said they served espresso. Naturally, it was just a steak house.
I look under the chair for the umbrella and what do you know, it’s gone. These fuckers pulled a George Costanza on me. The umbrellas in the bucket are not for free, people. It’s still raining, not nearly as badly, but it’s definitely wet out.
We walk into the steakhouse and there’s a fucking coat girl which isn’t a great sign for my wallet. The bar isn’t full but there are some people around; we sat a seat down from another couple, figuring that maybe we’d talk to them. Marisa doesn’t order an espresso, she just gets an espresso martini. I order an old fashioned because, where the fuck am I anyway. Might as well pay $30 for drinks.
While the bartender is making our drinks, some jerk off comes and sits down next to us. He asks if he could sit next to us, which of course we comply. This guy is twice our age with kids, which of course we know all about now. He starts telling us how he’s in town for his daughter’s swim meet and that she’s going to Harvard or Yale or some bullshit. He’s proud of her, but he keeps insulting himself. His favorite line was “I’m the B parent.” Why are you making us feel bad that you don’t parent your kids enough? This guy said it about 15 times. It makes me really uncomfortable when people insult themselves. He was really hoping that we would tell him how good of a parent he was, but what the fuck do I know about parenting.
He orders a drink, a French and 75, which is a bizarre thing to order. Gin and champagne. He proceeds to order both of us the same thing, “let my friends get one each, too,” he said. It essentially tastes like a classy lemon drop. This guy is telling us its the best drink we’ll ever have, fast forward 12 hours to my undying hangover.
As we sit there with this man he decides to leave. He gets his check and says goodbye to us, wishing us well and telling us how glad he was that he met us. I get the check for our bill and what the fuck do you know? The fucking French and 75s are on my fucking bill. Another $45 I have to pay because this 50 year old man with his pink fucking Ralph Lauren polo and Gucci glasses wanted to be a big shot. Fuck it, we pay and leave.
We walk next door into this small wine bar that was open for another half hour. Of course, we meet another group of older guys. And they bullshit with us about the best Italian restaurants and where to get bagels and whatever else they knew everything about. I don’t take recommendations from people on Italian food anymore.
At this point in my life, I’m at that existential quarter life crisis. Getting married, almost 30 years behind me already. This could be the back 9 for all I know, but for some reason, Marisa and I can only meet people above the age of 45. It’s just who we are I guess. Maybe it’s because we both really can’t hang anymore. Maybe it’s because we choose to go out to steakhouses and lonely wine bars instead of fun bars. Actually, yeah that’s probably it, that’s the reason, isn’t it..