The Aussie: Everything’s dandy until you find yourself with no way out

Since last Wednesday, I’ve had four dates with four different guys. Unfortunately for you, dear readers, the dates with these guys were actually decent, which makes it that much harder for me to entertain you. I’ll do my best though. (Bear with me, I’m supposed to meet up with a Republican, Catholic, anti-abortion guy next week. He promises to make for a much more entertaining post, I’m sure.)

I met The Aussie for a few beers at the Front Page Wednesday evening. We’d bonded over appreciation of good beer, our mutual disdain for discussing politics, and the fact that the two of us were members of the small rank of people in the D.C. area who weren’t watching the election coverage last Tuesday. (Admittedly, he has far less reason to be interested in the whole American political system than I do, considering he’s only here temporarily for work. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled with the outcome, I just didn’t see the need to spend hours watching the coverage; the print and Web stories the next day told me all I wanted to know and more.)

Anyhow, we met for a beer (mmm… beer) then headed to another locale for dinner. During the course of the meal, he asked about the people I’d met through Craigslist. I’m not sure why I thought it’d be a good idea to divulge the details of my worst dates, but I certainly did just that. I suppose I was trying to be entertaining. Perhaps he was entertained, but he seemed, from that point on, concerned that I’d be telling everyone what a horrible date he was. (Considering that I chronicle my dates here, I suppose he wasn’t far off in his concern.)

When he poured his beer too fast and it overflowed, he quipped, “Now you can tell your friends about this horrible date with a guy who spilled his beer everywhere.” I tried to assure him that I was having a lovely time and wouldn’t do such a thing. (Me, discuss a date’s shortcomings? Never!) “No, it’s okay. You can even embellish it… tell them I poured it all over you. I’d back up your story.” Ah, The Aussie has a good sense of humor to accompany that sexy, Down Under accent.

At one point, we started talking about scars, and I asked him to tell me the story of one of them. He told me of a horrible crash in his adolescence that put the driver in a coma and gave her permanent, if relatively minor, brain damage. No scars from that one, but a much cooler story than any of the ones that left their permanent imprint. He’s quite the daredevil, this one.

He also said he doesn’t see himself in the States for more than a few years at most. He’s moved around quite a bit, and travels a great deal for work and for play. He sounds like an adventurous guy who’d be fun to hang out with, but no one to grow too attached to.

After dinner, I followed The Aussie to his place for an herbal nightcap. We hung out for a while, me sitting on his bed, him sitting in his desk chair (at least he didn’t presume that me coming to his house meant I would sleep with him), talking of trivial things, as you tend to do in such situations. Finally, I noted his intensifying languor and collected myself for the drive home, he walked me out and gave me a kiss on the cheek, telling me to be safe and give him a call.*

This, folks, is what became (in retrospect) the most entertaining part of the night. I’d printed directions to get to the meeting place, and I managed to get back there from his house with no problem. I hadn’t printed return directions, though, so I was retracing my route by reversing the directions and trying to gain clues from my surroundings. This did not work. For some reason, no matter what I did (left, right, or straight at the major intersection), I kept getting put back out on one of two roads (both of which lead right back to the same intersection). I tried veering to the left at a fork, and veering to the right. Each lead me back to the intersection. I was stuck going, quite literally, in circles, no matter how much I tried to vary my course. (Thinking of it now, this is a pretty good analogy for my dating life, isn’t it?)

I couldn’t call The Aussie so soon after leaving his house. One, there was the issue of me coming across as a dumb girl who can’t find her way home, which, really, I could’ve dealt with if I’d had no other option. More importantly, though, there was the probability that he had already passed out and would not answer my call. If he awoke the next morning to a missed call from my number mere minutes after I left his house, all bets would have been entirely off.

Long story short, at least half an hour later I turned onto a completely unfamiliar street just to extract myself from the never-ending loop from hell, pulled into a parking lot, and called my friend in LA nearly in tears. Thank the gods for good friends, three-hour time differences and Mapquest. She looked up directions and got my close-to-hyperventilating ass home. (This is why I’m getting a GPS from Santa, kiddies.)

* I fully intend to devote an entire post to ranting about this trend with the boys I’ve met in D.C. Don’t guys ever take the initiative to call girls anymore? Lazy assholes.