“So, wait. What exactly is it that you do?” I asked Frank as I fiddled my straw.
I typically find a person’s job to be approximately the most boring thing about them, which is why I can go years into my friendships with people, not really knowing what they do for a living. In fact, I don’t even confidently know what my father does. I know he’s very successful at it, though, and that he hates his coworker Bill.
But by the third drink and fourth time Frank mentioned his “guys” and the “workshop he hosted,” though, I felt he was almost begging me to ask him about what he did 40+ hours a week. So, begrudgingly, I did.
“I’m a men’s dating and lifestyle coach.”
How is that even a real job?
“So, like, you’re the real life Hitch.”
“You know, I’ve never seen the movie.”
“He falls in love with a writer. Which is what I do for a living. So I guess we can just send out our save-the-dates now.”
He pretended to laugh, and I was immediately reminded that marriage is the one thing you can’t joke about with men. That, and the size of their penis.
Truthfully, I wasn’t thrilled about his profession. Dating a dating coach is like banging a gynecologist. Yeah, they probably know what they’re doing, but something’s weird about knowing they normally get paid for it. I took a sip
“How’d you, uhh, get into this profession?”
“I started out as a client, actually.”
Oh, okay. So you used to be a loser. How is this even possible? This is one of the hottest men I’ve ever been out with. I don’t even like hot guys, usually, because they eventually leave you for someone hotter. I’m assuming. And now this gorgeous man is telling me he’s a secret dweeb? What the fuck?
“So was Hitch! I think. Or, he just started out having trouble with women.”
“Still haven’t seen it.”
Woah, sir. Being a fucking douchebag is not in the dating rulebook. Believe that.
“Do you ever coach women?”
“I have, yeah.”
“What would you tell me if I was your client?”
Uhhhh, probably not to ask such stupid fucking questions, dumbass. Why would I invite criticism? This is supposed to be the question I toil over for the rest of my life when I don’t hear from you. I’m not supposed to straight up ASK you what I’m doing wrong.
“You really want to know?”
Oh, good. An out. I’ll just tell him no.
“Yeah! Lay it on me.”
That went well.
“Well, I’d say part of your problem is your Bumble pictures.”
“What’s wrong with my pictures?”
“I mean, nothing’s wrong with them. They’re great. But you just look, really….fun.”
I knew what “fun” meant. It was an interesting new way to say I look like a party girl who’s not to be taken seriously. Having a swimsuit photo as my lead is probably not the best play, if we’re being honest.
“Based on the pictures you chose to put up…a few at the bar, one on a boat, I just assumed I would come out here tonight and have fun. And I am! But I didn’t expect to actually have deeper conversations with you, which we actually have.”
“Well, isn’t it good to be pleasantly surprised? I like those pictures! And I mean, I do like to go out.”
“Right, but that’s not the only side of you, but you’ve presented it like it is. Which is fine for someone like me who is available for something more serious. I am actually pleasantly surprised. But if you look…fun, you’re going to attract guys who are just looking, ya know, to have fun.”
Wow. A scholar. A genius. A man. How has this never occurred to me before in my entire life. I had to know more.
“Haha, alright. You make a good point. Anything else, Socrates?”
“Well, we did have maybe one too many of these,” he said, gesturing toward my fourth empty vodka soda with lime. “I normally recommend my clients only take girls out for about two hours.”
Aaaaannnd you lost me. I’m not going to drink less on dates. That’s wild. Maybe I am just a “fun” girl after all..