If the hot blonde with the treif hand hadn't given me her telephone number, I'd have probably imagined a date with her anyway. She was that pretty. And if I had imagined a date, it would have been perfect. We'd have made a picnic on the beach with maybe peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or hot dogs, and we'd have talked until sundown. Finally, when we'd walk along the beach, later that night, she'd lean down and kiss me. She'd say something like, "There's something strange yet so familiar about you." And I'd smile and say something like, "I know." And maybe, after that, we'd live together for a year, before...
OK, OK ... I'm getting carried away. My imagination does that sometimes. Why? Well, before I decided to let girls know I'm a "sensitive guy,"my imagination was almost always better than the real thing.
I called the hot blonde. She suggested we go to a seafood restaurant. When she arrived, 15 minutes late, she was even more beautiful than I'd remembered. She had long black eyelashes, a pale neck, and drool-worthy legs. She wore a short gray skirt, a tight turquoise top, earrings that sparkled in the light and a "What Would Jesus Do?" bracelet.
"You look beautiful," I said. She twirled. "I know," she replied.
She ordered shrimp cocktails and vodka with tomato juice. Part way through the meal, she asked why I wasn't eating anything. "My tummy doesn't feel well," I said. It was true. I hate the smell of shrimp, vodka and tomato juice. "But I don't mind," I added. And that was true, too. There was something about her.
Despite my unease, the conversation flowed well. She was a good talker, and she filled the silence with lots of fun factoids. "Did you know that toothpaste is made from little dead animals?" she said, for no particular reason. I shook my head and felt good we were getting so close.
I learned that she likes "artsy stuff" like partying, and that she can't imagine life without sex and mixed drinks. "Promiscuity has such bad connotations," she said. Admittedly, there was something exciting about the way she used the word "connotations."
"I may be promiscuous, but I'm a good Christian. I go to church every Sunday unless I party too much." I was surprised and admittedly impressed by her spiritual devotion. "What about you?" she asked. "Do you love Jesus, too?"
"You're sensitive and all, so you must love Jesus, right?"
I took a deep breath. "Well, I think Jesus was a nice guy. But I don't think I love him anymore than say, Howard Stern, Paul Bremer, or my high school Spanish teacher."
She looked confused. "I'm confused," she said.
"I'm Jewish," I responded.
"Jewish?" she asked.
"Not Christian," I said.
"Oh," she said. "I guess it makes sense."
"Well, you're so short," she said. "Aren't Jews short?" I thought of my brother, also Jewish, and eight inches taller than me.
When we patted each other on the back and said our goodbyes, I knew I'd never see her again. I couldn't help but feel, once again, like I'd watched a spawning trout jump out of my little river. Sure she was stupid, insensitive, and surely not the girl for me, but I didn't care. "She was beautiful," I said to my father on the phone later that night. He understood.
I'm about to start my journey dating 50 girls, during which I will hopefully find true love. I hit the road Oct. 4, and I hope I will find some that are beautiful on the inside and the outside (and without the WWJD bracelet).
"Life, when you're 22, is a lot like the Jewish New Year," my mother said to me last night. I couldn't imagine where she was going with that statement.
"You get turned down a lot -- especially you -- but after you cry a little or hold your stuffed monkey with the shaved head, you have to pick yourself up and look forward to a beautiful future with apples, honey and a cute Jewish girl that can hold her matzah balls."
I wasn't sure what she meant. But I think I got the idea.
Dan Jacobs currently resides in Western Massachusetts. He will soon return to Los Angeles to live. If you'd like to learn more his journey, or if you're a nice, single Jewish girl, visit www.fiftydates.com.