Confessions of an Ugly Girl (5 page)

I hoped my mother would just drop it. No such luck.

“Why can’t you tell me his last name?” she demanded.

“Because.”

“What if you disappear and I have to tell the police his information?”

“Well, if he’s planning to kidnap me, he probably didn’t give me his real last name anyway.” I always dignify her stupid questions with a response. I know I shouldn’t but it’s really hard to resist.

“How do you know him?” she asked me.

“He’s a friend of Donna’s husband,” I lied. I can’t tell her that I met him on the Internet. According to her, everyone on the Internet is a serial killer.

“Don’t have sex with him,” she warned me.

“Oh my God, Ma…”

“He won’t marry you if you have sex with him!”

Shhh, don’t tell my mother that I’m not still a virgin. Only 29% of women in this country are virgins when they get married, and if I do eventually miraculously get married, I am
not
going to be one of them. I lost my virginity about a decade ago, after a friend’s wedding. I was pretty drunk at the time, although I do vaguely recall that the guy’s name was Evan. There have been other times since then. I was even in a couple of somewhat long-term relationships where I had semi-regular sex.    

But in my mother’s head, I’m still a virgin and will be one until my wedding night or death, whichever comes first. I absolutely cannot do anything to dispel this notion. I think if she ever started giving me sex tips, that would be the end. They’d find me curled up in a little ball in my bathtub, shaking and rocking back and forth.

Anyway, I have to go get ready for my hot date with Harry.

P.S. I don’t plan on having sex with him tonight.

P.P.S. But you never know…

July 21:

Last night was my date with Harry. I could sum it up in one word:

Ugh
.

I spent a lot of time picking out an outfit. I’m embarrassed how much time I spent in front of my closet. I actually have a lot of clothes, but only about a third of them fit me at any given time. I have my skinny clothes, my normal clothes, and my obese clothes. My obese clothes are all really huge and loose and I wear them when I’m all bloated from PMS or on a horrible upward weight swing. I would never ever wear any of these clothes on a date.

My skinny clothes are from a period four years ago when I managed to keep off some weight for a few months and bought all new clothes in a fit of optimism. Then the weight all came back.

It’s really depressing to try to pull up a pair of pants and not even be able to get them over my hips. They fit me maybe once a year, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. I’m still hopeful.

I selected a black blouse and skirt. I looked like I was going to a funeral, but I really do look best in black. Harry had at least some potential and I wanted to look my best, so I spent time styling my hair, trying to make it look less awful. Then I did something that I hate doing but is sadly necessary: got out the tweezers and started plucking. Mostly eyebrows but one or two hairs in a few other places. We don’t need to get into that.

I was meeting Harry at a restaurant. You always have to meet internet dates in public places so they don’t murder you.

(It’s actually amazing how much energy I’ve devoted so far to wondering if Harry is a murderer. At this point, it seems like it might be disappointing if it turns out that he’s
not
a murderer.)

Harry was already at the restaurant when I got there, which was nice because I could check him out from afar. More importantly, it meant that he wasn’t planning to check
me
out from afar and maybe make a quick getaway. All in all, it was a very auspicious sign.

Harry looked worse than his photo, which wasn’t a big surprise. Nobody looks anything close to as good as their photo. He was a lot balder and fatter, and he had a purple birthmark on his scalp. He looked a little like Mikhail Gorbachev, that guy who used to be President or Czar or whatever of Russia. He wasn’t horribly, terrifyingly ugly or anything like that—like, he didn’t have giant claws instead of fingers or buttocks where his face should be—so I decided to join him for dinner.

I went over to the table and introduced myself to Harry. I could tell from his expression that he was a little disappointed with me too, but he was a gentleman and hid it well. I appreciated that. “I already ordered some wine for the table,” he told me.

Thank God.

“So you work as an actuary, right?” Harry said, as he dug into one of the rolls at the table. He had a slightly nasal voice that somehow set my nerves on edge.

“That’s right, Harry,” I replied. I made a point of calling him by his name, because I recently read that doing so makes the other person feel like you’re paying attention to him and that you’re connected.

“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.

“I really do, Harry,” I told him. “It’s really interesting and fun.”

Harry dabbed at his chin with a napkin. His profile said that he’s 39, but he looked older. I would have guessed mid-forties. I wonder if he lied.   

“Sounds pretty boring to me,” he commented.

Gee, thanks, Harry.

(And anyway, he worked as an
accountant
, according to his profile. Was he really in any position to throw stones?)

I watched as Harry sliced his roll in half. Then he started buttering the roll, but weirdly enough, he used
two
packages of butter. I mean, I like butter as much as the next person, maybe even more, but I think there’s an unspoken rule that you can’t use more than one package of butter per roll. It’s just decadent.

For some reason, I couldn’t help but compare him to Sam. Sam, who was so incredibly cute, and also had a great sense of humor. And Sam and I had a chemistry that I knew was never going to develop between me and Harry. Why did I say no when he asked me out? What’s
wrong
with me?

I spent a lot of time looking at my menu so I didn’t have to talk to Harry. There are three rules for ordering dinner on a date:

1. You can’t order anything that could potentially get stuck in your teeth.
   
2. You have to order a meal that gives the illusion that you eat like a bird.
   
3. You can’t order anything that will make your breath stink.
   

I ended up ordering a chicken caesar salad. As long as it doesn’t have spinach, a salad is usually a good bet.

Harry apparently was unaware of the three rules for ordering food during a date, or maybe he didn’t care. He ordered a steak with garlic spinach on the side, and within a minute of the food coming, there was spinach stuck in his teeth.

I can’t believe I’m 33 years old and I still don’t know what to do when the person I’m eating with has spinach stuck in their teeth. Do you tell them or not? It seems rude to tell somebody that they have crap in their teeth, but also seems rude not to.

I ended up not telling Harry, which meant that I had to keep averting my eyes because you obviously can’t look at a person with spinach in their teeth.

“Women always order salads,” Harry said.

“That’s not true, Harry,” I said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date where the woman didn’t order a salad.”

“I don’t always order a salad, Harry.”

Harry squinted at me. “Why do you keep doing that?”

I frowned. “Doing what, Harry?”

“You did it again!” He shook his head. “You keep calling me by my name. It’s really weird.”   

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

I guess I overdid it. I’m not sure why I was even bothering, considering I didn’t really like Harry, and I didn’t particularly care if he liked me or not. Except maybe pride.     

As we ate, Harry told me more about the things he collected. The list included baseball cards, comic books, stamps, bottle caps, coins, action figures, matchboxes, mugs, and several other things that I’m blanking on now. After a while, I started thinking that maybe Harry the Collector was actually Harry the Hoarder. If I ever visited his home, I was scared that I would have to wade through a sea of zippo lighters and potato chips that looked like celebrities.

Luckily, it was seeming more and more unlikely I would ever step inside Harry’s home.

When the check came, he said we should split it. That’s how I knew the date was a complete bust. Sure, I can afford to pay for dinner and it wasn’t a big deal, but I think if the guy doesn’t offer to pay, it means he doesn’t care what you think of him. Also, we split the check right down the middle, even though he ordered a steak and I ordered a freaking salad.

After dinner, Harry walked me to my car. I was so relieved the date was almost over. I just wanted to go home and eat some ice cream, because I was still starving after my tiny little salad.

“That’s me,” I said to Harry, pointing out my Honda.

“Okay,” he said. “I guess this is good night then.”

I turned to him and prepared myself for an awkward wave goodbye or possibly an awkward handshake. What I was not prepared for was for Harry to lean forward and press his lips against mine.

The average couple doesn’t kiss until their second date, and it’s not like Harry and I were having any kind of amazing chemistry, so the whole thing really caught me off-guard. Unsurprisingly, his breath stunk of garlic, especially when the bastard tried to slip me a little tongue. It was one of those kisses which reaffirmed my thinking that being single wasn’t bad at all and it was in no way worth it to have to date someone like Harry.

What really pisses me off though is that as bad as Harry is, he’ll probably get married before I do. Because he’s a man and women are much more understanding about unattractive men. If I were a man, I’d be a great catch. I’m financially stable, I have a good job, and I’m not a complete jerk or serial killer. My X chromosomes totally screwed me over.

“Can I call you?” Harry asked me.

“Okay,” I said.

I’m not entirely sure why I agreed. I didn’t feel attracted to Harry at all, but I wasn’t going to turn him down. A girl like me is not supposed to turn men down. Anyway, Harry wasn’t that bad. I just had to get over feeling completely repulsed by him.

July 22:

This morning, I had a case of the Mondays, as they say. I had been looking forward to my date Saturday and then it was a complete bust. Well, it could have been worse—he could have murdered me. Half of me was hoping I’d never have to see Harry again and the other half was hurt that he hadn’t called.

First thing when I walked in the door to the office, Donna asked me about my date, even though she should’ve known better. I guess she was just excited.

“It wasn’t great,” I said.

“Maybe you should pay a little visit to the Computer Helpdesk and see Sam,” she suggested with a wink.

I couldn’t tell her how tempted I’d been to do exactly that. But I had already rejected Sam twice now. It was probably too late. I couldn’t imagine going up to him and telling him that I had decided to go out with him after all.

I drank two cups of coffee and played a couple of games of FreeCell on the computer, trying to get my brain in good enough shape to do some work. After about an hour, I got an email from the boss, saying that there was going to be a talk this afternoon that everyone had to attend. The talk was on “Computer Security.”

Apparently, our company was recently hacked. Information was stolen and data was leaked. It could’ve been worse, but the whole thing was just very embarrassing. So the company is taking extra measures to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

I didn’t realize until I actually got to the conference room that afternoon that the talk was being given by none other than Samuel Webber. He was already in the conference room when I got there, much more dressed up than he had been on the other occasions I had seen him. He was wearing a jacket and a tie this time, and the navy blue color of the tie really brought out his eyes. I had always thought he was cute, but in a suit and tie he looked decidedly handsome. Although I couldn’t help but wonder how he tied a tie with his fingers like that.

“Hi, Millie,” he said to me when I walked into the room. “Nice to see you again.”

“I like your tie,” I blurted out. I blushed after I said it. God, I hate my stupid skin.

Sam grinned at me. “I only own two ties, so they’d better be good, eh?”

I slipped into a seat that was near the front of the room. Sam was talking to my boss, Rich, but he looked over at me every minute or so. Now that I had permission to look at Sam, since he was the speaker, I was really checking him out. His wheelchair was not one of those clunky ones from the hospital or something—it was compact and sporty looking. I wondered how long he’d used it. I think Donna was right about him being paralyzed, because his legs weren’t moving at all. He was one of those guys who clearly didn’t spend a lot of time and energy trying to look good (going for glasses rather than contacts, hair gel-free), but he somehow looked good anyway.