Date 13 - Set Up with Swamp Rat

“Emily, I’d like to set you up with Swamp Rat.”

Not a common phrase. Obviously I had to see where this went.

I’d been talking to some friends about the 40 Date Challenge, and how I have zero skills at meeting men online. My friends laughed at (and with) me, but also thought they knew someone who would be willing to help me out by going on a date with me.

Swamp Rat and I were given a minimal amount of information about one another, he was duly informed about the 40 Date Challenge, and our mutual friend even provided us with some sample questions to help spur conversation. Our friend’s set-up email was charming and funny. Plus who can resist finding out why someone’s friends would refer to him as Swamp Rat?

We found a day that worked with his schedule and mine, and met at a neutrally located social house. No idea where on the spectrum a “social house” would land, but it was a restaurant of some ilk. I was early and parked underground, thereby missing the rockstar free parking spot just outside the door. I walked in and the hostess asked me how many people were in my party. I told her I was meeting someone. There were an uncomfortable number of follow-up questions, including:

No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition!

1.       Are they here already?

Yes, he’s over there, but I’d rather stand here and stare blankly into your eyes.

2.       Do you know what he looks like?

According to my friend’s email, he is single, male, roughly my age with no major physical deformities. Does that help?

3.       How about a name?

Swamp Rat, obviously!

4.       Where would you like to sit?

Down, please.

Smooth, Emily, smooth. You’re not on an obvious blind date; maybe you’re just really really clueless and can’t remember who you’re supposed to be having dinner with. That’s a thing. Isn’t it? What’s wrong with being on an obvious blind date, anyway? She asked herself defensively. Deep breath, you’ve got 27 more of these to go.

Suffice it to say that I was a little flustered. I sat down in a booth, and checked my phone. Swamp Rat was on his way, and asked about parking. I tipped him off to the rockstar parking spot and tried to shake off the pervasive feeling of embarrassment. He apologized for being late, I told him I was in a booth on the left.

He arrived shortly, I put my phone away. He pointed out (accurately) that the booth was actually on the right. So much for overcoming that embarrassment. Sigh.  

Swamp Rat was tall, casually dressed with a shaved head, light eyes, and a bit of stubble. He was also looking at me as though I’d said or done something distasteful. Not an uncommon occurrence, but he’d only just arrived and I was on fairly good behaviour.

So more like this

First and foremost, I ascertained that he is called Swamp Rat because of an amazing (grotesque) movember moustache, and the name stuck. The moustache, luckily, did not.

Our server Gideon came over and asked if we would like drinks. Swamp Rat ordered a beer and I asked if they had cider. They did not. I ordered an old fashioned, and Swamp Rat looked at me strangely, his eyebrows raised. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or worried. He asked if we could change sides of the booth. The sun was shining in through the windows, and my cheap, non-glare-resistant glasses were making it impossible for him to see my face. That explained his pained expression. At least, I hoped so.

We switched sides and started to chat. I was still trying to get un-flustered and so I asked him about CrossFit. It was one of the things our friend had mentioned.

Swamp Rat was just getting started when Gideon came back with our drinks. We hadn’t looked at the food menu yet, so Gideon told us to stack them at the edge of our table when we figured out what we wanted. We eventually ordered a burger (me) and pad thai (Swamp Rat).



If only my wrist wasn't shattered,
this could be me. Darn!

We returned to our conversation. If CrossFit is a cult, Swamp Rat has the Kool-Aid on an IV drip. I asked some questions, but when he suggested I try it for myself I made a flippant comment which may have hurt his feelings. I felt like a jackass and explained that (quite apart from the fact that I have zero desire to take fitness remotely seriously) I physically could not participate in the majority of CrossFit due to a decade-old injury.

He asked me for the story of how I sustained that injury, which is a long one full of adventure and trauma. I tried to emphasize the humour, to make it more first-date palatable. I was babbling, but he was a fabulous listener. I probably talked too much. I definitely talked about volleyball too much. I had a game later that evening, and was still in a fair amount of pain from the tournament the previous day.

At least with all of the physical activity talk, we were both able to justify getting a dessert each. He had a cheesecake in a mason jar, I had a massive brownie. Both were so good, and sharing was cute. 

We’d been keeping fairly good track of time, so when it was about time for me to head to volleyball, we said “good-night.” He told me he would text me, and I believed him. 

I wandered to the door that I swore led to the parkade, but it was locked. I tried to get in through the parkade entrance where the cars go, but it wouldn’t open. Buggar.

I went back to the restaurant and explained my new ridiculous circumstances to the hostess. She sighed heavily and told me that the ticket I got when I parked should have a code on it to get into the door. I apologized to her for being a total moron and sprinted back to the door. There was no keypad next to the door handle. After freaking out a bit and calling my teammate, and realizing that even if he could come and pick me up, all of my volleyball gear was locked up with Errol (my car). I hung up before it started ringing. I started pacing. There, on the left (or the right, if you want to be accurate about it, jeez), behind a big damn shrubbery was the keypad. I pulled out the ticket, punched in the number, and was in!

Having rescued Errol, I then could not find my way out of the parkade. The door was painted the exact same colour as the walls, and not marked with any EXIT signage whatsoever. When I finally did figure it out, my credit card would not work in the machine. I said some things that I regret, even though nobody heard them. That kind of night.

Some amazing moustaches for your viewing pleasure