A few Friday nights ago we pondered the question of our “best dates ever” over late night tater tots at Daddy-O’s. We don’t know if an apparent dearth of great dates, or the drink we had just invented called Le Vodka Surprise was to blame, but we had a difficult time staying on topic. We had tales galore of bad dates to rehash, but couldn’t pinpoint a date that could be described as The.Best.Date.Ever.
Thankfully, Le Vodka Surprise fried potato combo eventually worked like truth serum on our otherwise prone-to-denial brains and we begrudgingly admitted that our all-time favorite dates were with the very same men that inspired our blog. After publicizing how the recession reduced them to mojo-less stress-balls, we can’t help but to hope this retrospective in some way rectifies some of the emotional damage we inflicted upon those two poor schmoes by dating us.
Kristen Flanagan reports for Glamour: Glamour.com
Eight hours of conversational bliss
We had met once before, but this was our first date. It had taken weeks of texting and both actual and fake rescheduling—a girl can never be too hard to get—to finally get together. I don’t remember exactly where we went, but what I do remember was conversation that could only be described as magical. It was laden with quick, snappy banter, and one story begot three more. I could barely get in my signature “So one time at Oktoberfest…” story amiss all of his “So one time when I was working in Asia…” stories. The date lasted for eight hours without one awkward silence—surely a world record.
What could be better than a surprise getaway?
Being the country-lovin’ gal I claim to be—a pretense half based in truth and half part of my “look what a cool down-to-earth chick I am” shtick—it makes sense that my number one date wasn’t in the city. It was during Fashion Week. My date aptly observed my quickly rising stress levels and decided to whisk me away to the Berkshires. While he put our promptly packed bags in the train’s overhead compartment, I called my coworkers pleading the flu and a self-imposed quarantine—for their sake, of course. (And if they’re reading this, I’m hoping they’ll forgive me in the name of love.) He and I spent the weekend eating numerous lobster rolls and then swimming in the lake—without waiting the recommended hour. The thrill of skipping work and forgoing my childhood lifeguard warning was just enough excitement to really heat things up.
