Does the money make the man?
My blind date with a millionaire and what I learned from the experience.
This week I went on a blind date. A guy saw my picture on a mutual friend’s Facebook, and asked our friend to set us up. When I saw his picture I voiced my disinterest.
Then, the friend who set us up may have used words like “trust fund” and “millionaire” to describe my would-be suitor. I’ve been on dates with guys who mysteriously lose their wallets sometime between showing the bartender their ID’s and when the bill comes; right away I began to rationalize with myself reasons to go on a date with a guy who wouldn’t try to go dutch at dinner. I wasn’t attracted to him, per se, but…
“There’s something sexy about a man who works hard and enjoys monetary success because of it. Right?”
“I’m shallow if I don’t go just because his picture leaves something to be desired.”
“Plus, girl’s gotta eat.”
“Worst possible scenario — I make a new friend.”
“Ok. I’m a saint. I’ll do it.”
Having lulled myself into a false sense of being-the-least-shallow-person-who-ever-lived, I agreed to the date. I began to construct an absurd fantasy of the kind of date a millionaire would orchestrate to impress me.
Once my delusions of grandeur set in, I decided I needed to look hot. I wore an above-the-knee dress that made my waist look tiny, my hips ideal for childbearing, and my boobs pneumatic — just yearning to escape the lace prison beneath my white, flowy dress. I looked like a virginal-madonna-yet-sexually-available-bombshell, and I worked it, honey.
But underneath all that confidence was an uneasy feeling I could not shake. I could rationalize all I wanted, but I knew exactly what I was doing. I intended to “wow” this rich guy —only because he was rich, and that felt bad. However, as it usually does, karma took its toll on me for my bitchy behavior.
My date asked to meet me at a semi-up-scale restaraunt downtown. I have been to this place on so many dates — the waiter knew to bring me a Tanqueray gin and tonic when I arrived. Things went downhill quickly from there.
Strike one: My date didn’t stand to greet me when I arrived; he remained seated while I pulled out my own chair, and he was wearing a baseball cap at dinner — ew. That’s the thing about “Tallahassee money”, it merely enables a good ol’ boy to be tactless in more expensive places than an average budget. He’s the kind of classy motherfucker who doesn’t just go to NASCAR events — his family’s company logo is on the damn race car.
Prelude to Strike Two: Ok. I’m a vapid-looking “twenty-something” with tattoos and a tongue piercing — I anticipate occasionally being judged solely on my appearance, which just screams:
“HIPPIE-LIBERAL-PROCHOICE-I-LIKE-GAY-PEOPLE!”
(I’m ok with people making that assumption about me because I really scream all those things.)
Yet I’m always caught off-guard by how quickly southern men volunteer the information that they are not racists — while referring to a race as “those people.” Men of the country-western-southern genre tend to bring up the topic of race completely out of the blue; I can be sure, after he says he’s down with “the minorities”, my southern gent will soon convey he also “doesn’t really mind gays much.”
Strike Two: I barely had time to say hello before this guy started trying to convince me of his liberal beliefs.
Him: “Hi nice to meet you, I’m not a racist.”
(I’m paraphrasing)
Him: “Hi, My name is Andrew, I went to Stetson Law, and I don’t think they should be allowed to get married, but I’ve met a couple of gays and they were O.K.”
Me: *stops passing waiter, points to drink* “Um yes, I’ll have another one of these, but this time use the Hendricks, not the Tanqueray.”
Him: “Yeah my firm even has a couple of gay clients, they dress nice.”
Me: *shouts to waiter* “…actually, can you make it a double? K Thanks.”
Strikes three, four and five: He made self-defamatory statements all night, got more drunk than I did, and he “didn’t realize there was a North Korea and a South Korea”. No, no, and no. Just — no.
Regarding strike three — he started nearly every sentence with, “this is going to sound stupid” or, “I’m probably wrong, but…”.
Confidence is so sexy on a man, there just really isn’t a substitute for it when I calculate attractiveness.
Then, despite boasting that he went to school for political science and history, said he didn’t know anything about North Korea.
Ok, yes — I’m a defective dater for bringing up North Korea on a first date — I’ll give you that one. But at this point I was starving for interesting conversation; I literally cannot be bored talking about the DPRK — unfortunately this guy was just a dullard. He didn’t know anything about the world or current events; I grudgingly changed the subject.
Then there was his failure to continue acting normal after two drinks, on top of his inability to order masculine drinks. Ok — if I’m drinking a gin and tonic, don’t order a pink martini, sir! We’ll just look silly sitting next to each other!
But, girly-drink be damned! By the end of the meal my date was rambling and slurring his words from all those lady-drinks. Not cute.
At this point, I had mentally ruled this guy out. He offered to walk me to my car, which was admittedly, a refreshingly chivalrous gesture, but not a redeeming one, by any means. But then, we get to my car and he asks if he can call me sometime. It was as if I became possessed by some gold-digging she-demon: “Absolutely!”, I enthusiastically replied.
Surprised by my own words, while we were still making eye contact, I could feel the muscles in my face begin to transition from a sweet smile into an anxiety-related expression that I make often in these overwhelming situations — it’s like horror, panic, shock and awe all portrayed on my face at once. Friends say I look like Beaker from the Muppets when I make this face — it’s not cute— I hurried into my car so I could writhe privately.
“Shit! Ahhhhhhh! Why did I say that?! Now I have to either ignore his calls and texts like some bitch-coward hybrid-lady, or suck it up and tell him I’m not actually interested. Fuck.”
This is the part where I talk about my feelings
When he called me the next day I had to come clean. I hate rejecting people. Dealing with rejection is definitely the most awful part about dating for me — I hate that I might have made someone else feel that way.
This experience made me ask some questions I didn’t know I had about myself — like when did I start caring about how much money a man has? What’s worse, I had the audacity to ruthlessly judge everything this guy did — while I was there trying to date him for his money — please exuse me while I erase my twitter bio and replace it with one word: “#rachet”.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing some anxiety over my impending graduation, and what I’m going to do in the real world with my degrees in political science and history. My parents have been constantly reminding me how much dough I’ll need to survive when they’re no longer supporting me in 6-short-months.
Had I let this urgency over easing my financial anxieties cloud my judgement, or did some other emotional deficit cause me to act so unclassy?
I’m still exploring the answer to these questions — but now that I’m aware of this character flaw, I can talk to someone about it and keep myself from getting into relationships for the wrong reasons. I went out on a date with someone I wasn’t attracted to because they have a lot of money; it did not make me feel good about myself and I know it was a mistake. All I can do now is learn from it, and not make the same mistake twice. And, you know what they say —
A smart man learns from his mistakes, but a wise man learns from the mistakes of others.
So, here’s to the smarties writing it all down for the wise men, cheers.
