Monday, February 09, 2004

A Second Date

First dates are pretty straight forward; you ask for the guy’s name, his phone number and then you get out of his bed and get dressed.

Second dates are more treacherous; you get lulled into a false sense of security since he called you again to ask for his wallet back. You’ve already talked about the humdrum stuff like your childhood, your crazy Uncle Louie, the time you got caught shoplifting. You’ve already done your impressions of Ted Koppel, Howard Cossell, James Earl Jones; maybe it’s time to call in the big guns: Bea Arthur. Or maybe you can talk about the strange itching you’ve been having down there or is that too personal? It’s very nerve-wracking. Still, if you can only get past the second date, you could get to watch his premium cable for a couple of months.

Most people know by the second date whether there will be a third, a fourth or an orgy. By the second date you would know if the strange cologne, the two-inch “lucky” hair on his mole or the barking during orgasm really bothers you.

Hopefully, there is a mutual attraction. Nothing is more pitiful than liking someone more than they like you. If they like you more, then you get to call the shots. If you like them more, then they have to get a restraining order.

I got called in for a second interview for company “T,” a second date, if you will. They are a company that has gone through tough times in the dotcom bust, but are now upbeat in their prospects. After being unemployed for four months, I have had only 3 face-to-face interviews, and this is the only one that had asked me to come back for a second round. In the best economy, this is a job I may perhaps decline because it is located too far, the job too one-dimensional. Should I take the job if it is offered to me? Or take a chance hoping my finances will last until I find a more suitable one? Choosers may end up beggars.

Company “T” has informed me that I am one of the two finalists to whom they are going to make an offer. I feel like a beauty contestant onstage, clutching my fellow contestant’s hands, waiting for Bert Parks to announce the winner. Perhaps I am being hasty. I may end up being the first runner-up, left standing while the winner breaks away to walk down the aisle, to the swelling music of "There she is, Miss America…"