Martini Guy and I had a good first date. We met up at a Wine Bar that I wanted to try out. We shared a couple small appetizers and I ordered a glass of Chardonnay while he ordered a vodka martini, extra dirty. He stated that he liked his martini with extra olive juice, more like a martini with olive juice and a splash of vodka. Not my cup of tea, but who am I to judge? Conversation flowed well and we had a second round of drinks. He was travelling in the upcoming week, and I was travelling the following week, but we kept in touch through the travels and finally met up for a second date when we were both back in town.
He suggested that we grab a drink and then walk around La Jolla Cove, a popular tourist spot with great sunset views. It was exceptionally warm and very humid that day so I put on a sundress and flip flops and headed to the coast.
Martini Guy suggested a popular place that was known for their margaritas. He texted he was running about 15 minutes late so I decided to grab a seat. I asked if he wanted to sit at a table or the bar. The reply? “You pick.” Ugh… fine, so I grabbed a table in the bar area. I had a glass of water while I was waiting.
He arrived and right away I knew the chemistry was just not the same. We ordered a round a drinks. I asked the server what their most popular margaritas were and she provided a couple choices. I ordered their signature skinny margarita and he ordered a vodka martini, extra dirty. Hmmm… We went to a wine bar and he ordered a dirty martini and went to a place known for its margaritas and he ordered a dirty martini. I guess he sticks with what he likes, but I digress.
“You want to order something to eat?,” he asked while looking at the menu.
“Sure – the fish looks great.”
We ordered food. I went with one of their lighter fares, a grilled fish bowl of sorts. He proceeded to have what seemed like a 4 minute conversation with the server as to whether or not the guacamole had “a lot or a little” onions and cilantro in it because he didn’t like to taste onions or cilantro in his guacamole. I made every effort to not roll my eyes. He ended up changing up half the ingredients in the burrito and adding french fries to it. He concluded with not getting the guacamole.
We muscled through conversation. We literally talked about french fries in burritos: when the trend started, the carb factor, the places that serve it best, etc. When our food arrived, he picked up his burrito. Picked up. This was a full restaurant size burrito with rice and beans on each side that is meant to be eaten with a fork and knife. He carefully maneuvered holding it to get the least amount of beans and rice on his hands and proceeded to eat what was basically steak, shrimp, french fries, and some sauce in a tortilla.
At one point we started talking about other restaurants in the area. He asked if I tried a particular pizza place yet.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“I ate there last night and I had the leftover pizza today.”
Not knowing where this was going, I stated, “Leftover pizza is great – it reminds me of college days.”
“Yeah, so I already ate before I came here because I didn’t think we were going to eat here. So all these calories I’m eating are your fault.” He then chomped into his burrito. Uhmmm… what? How? Why? If he didn’t want to order food, he should have not ordered food. I was confused. I tried to turn “defensive mode” off in my head and brushed it off as a joke. I hope. At this point, I knew this would definitely be our final date.
We finished up, split the bill, and used the restrooms. (With the two margaritas and three glasses of water, I wanted to make sure I was good before heading down to the shore line.) I came out of the restroom and he was standing near the front looking at his phone. We walked out of the restaurant and started our stroll towards the water.
We headed down some steps towards the water and he shared that he usually wears tennis shoes to go for walks. What an odd comment. I looked down at my flip flops, and from what I could see a lot of the people around us were wearing some type of beach wear sandals. We were strolling along the shoreline. I decided my footwear was fine and dismissed the comment.
As we strolled along the Cove, we stopped at various areas to check out the birds and the sea lions. There were a ton of people down there posing for sunset photos , sitting on blankets watching the sun go down, and generally strolling and enjoying the atmosphere. We stopped and took a couple sunset photos ourselves.
We continued past the sea lion area and continued walking. I noticed our speed slowly increased as we continued walking. It wasn’t long before this leisurely sunset stroll turned into a full on walk for exercise. We kept walking and walking. We were about to get to the area beyond the Cove where the houses started so I asked, “At what point do you typically turnaround?”
“I usually go around through this area and then cut through this residential street to bring us back up to Pearl Street.”
“Oh.” As a reminder, I’m wearing a sundress and beach flip flops and my purse is hanging off my shoulder. Despite my earlier restroom break, the 3 glasses of water and 2 margaritas were definitely on my mind. My feet were beginning to have that burning blister feeling and my bladder needed to be relieved in the immediate future. The very immediate future.
“So… I’m going to need to find a restroom soon. All that water is getting to me,” I chuckled. It was so awkward needing to announce that, but at this point, this was going to be an urgent situation. We were walking through a neighborhood and I was seriously considering knocking on the door of one of these multi-million homes to use their restroom.
“Okay, there is a Jack in the Box around the corner.”
“Great!” I replied.
We continued to walk, now walking uphill, and my eyes were wistfully straining for a Jack in the Box on the horizon. We stopped at an intersection with a gas station and were waiting for the light to change.
“I can just run in there,” pointing at the gas station across the street.
“No need, the Jack in the Box is right up the street.”
“Oh, okay.” I was focused on the “Don’t Walk” sign – anything to take my mind off the need to use the restroom. At this point I don’t know which pain was worse, my bladder or my feet. This was ridiculous.
We finally arrived at the Jack in the Box and I hustled inside through the patio doors. I was in the zone. I saw the restrooms, two individual-use doors and made a bee-line straight in that direction. An older man with a cane came in from the other doors near the parking lot and appeared to be headed to the registers. I quickly stepped in front of him and headed straight to the restroom.
Aaawww relief. Sweet relief. I was so sweaty from the “walk” that I took a quick second to dab myself with some cold water and paper towels. My hair was a sweaty mess and sticking to the back of my neck and upper back. I checked my bag for a hair tie. No, I didn’t bring a hair tie. Why would I bring a hair tie for a casual stroll along the shore? I decided nothing could be done about the frizzy, sweaty mess.
Feeling a little better (my feet were on fire and I was afraid to inspect them for fear of the entire bottom of my foot being a blister), I exited the restroom to find the old man with the cane leaned up against the wall patiently waiting for me to get out of the restroom. He gave me a look – you know that look down the nose and cast judgment look. His arms were crossed, and he was just looking down on me like I was a mischievous toddler.
Oh. My. Word. The old man didn’t order food. He stopped in to Jack in the Box to use the restroom as well. I literally just cut off an old man with a cane in my rush to the restroom. So mortifying. I attempted a sheepish smile and a shoulder shrug and headed towards the restaurant.
I look around and see Martini Guy by the door looking at his phone. Again. He’s probably swiping for his next date.
I joined him and we continued the power walk going by stores with him commenting at which stores he likes to shop at and which ones have nicer men’s clothes. I could care less at this point. My feet were screaming at me. For sure any blisters would have popped by now. I was going to be wearing gauze for the next couple weeks.
We came to the street where my car was parked. “I’m parked over here,” I said pointing across the street.
“Oh, okay, I’ll walk you to your car.” Great – only 50 steps and I can kick these things off in my car.
I started to cross the street and he said, “It’s better to cross up here,” pointing at the crosswalk at the end of the street.
Uhmm… this crosswalk in front of me looks perfectly fine, but sure, whatever. I followed him up to the top of the street where we crossed. We then proceeded to continue to walk by the restaurant we started at and I thought we would turn on the next street.
“Should we turn here?” I asked.
“No, I’m up on the next street.”
I’m confused. I thought he wanted to walk me to my car. I continued to follow him. At this point, I decided I was done.
“My car is back there. I’m going to turn here.”
“You should of said something, I thought I was walking you to your car,” he looked at me like I was an idiot.
“I said my car was back there by the library building.” It became abundantly clear that he obviously didn’t hear me earlier. Or it was a plain and simple miscommunication. We turned and I took the lead walking the last pain-filled couple blocks to my car.
When we arrived, we exchanged brief pleasantries and quickly did an awkward, sweaty hug.
I got in the car, kicked off my shoes, and turned on the air conditioning on full blast. After walking forever in the humidity, the blast of cold air was so refreshing. I got home, tenderly walked in, kicked off the flip flops, turned on the air conditioning in the house, and proceeded to hop in the shower because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand on my feet again once I sat down.
After I showered and sat on my bed, I decided it was time to look at the damage to my feet. Thankfully luck was on my side and there were no blisters! The skin was just red and raw from rubbing against those damn flip flops. I breathed a sigh of relief.
What a night! Out of curiosity, I went on Map My Run to see how long our “stroll” was. I mapped it out and found it was 2.8 miles. 2.8 miles!! 0.3 miles short of a 5k. In flip flops. In a sundress.
I never heard from him again and the feeling was mutual. A 5k in flip flops. Ridiculous.