Don’t Date a “Mate” By Kathleen Fitzgerald

"I can't believe he though it was okay to pet you ... in

a bar." No good deed goes unpunished. This maxim never felt truer than last Christmas when a former co-worker’s girlfriend turned their holiday party into a set up for me. The chosen guy was their 31-year-old Australian skier friend who’s a “pseudo partner” at his law firm. I’ve always been a fan of people from the sunniest penal colony so while the Aussie seemed a lot older than me he was nice enough that I

figured, "meh ... I'll hang out if he calls." (Plus, we shared a post-party cab home and he wouldn't let me pay. In my world, free cabs are the highest form of romantic currency.) Turns out the Aussie lawyer did call. Twice. The first time he called "on his way back from his Tahoe flat" to confirm that I really did want to hang out. The second time was to pick a place and time. (No offense to Mr. legal eagle but I'm a busy girl with a lot of reality TV watching to do ... you need to get that cellular inefficiency under control.) D-day – a term equally relevant for WWII and my date – arrived soon enough. “The Bar” (a nickname my beau earned that evening) was vegan, a somewhat notable drawback to someone raised in Cowtown, Texas. To me, vegans are in the same camp as bisexuals -- they seem confused about an important aspect of life. Fortunately the restaurant that The Bar met me at was normal because he'd mixed it up with the organic Vietnamese place across the street. *jackpot!* Having never eaten Vietnamese food before (why would you when Panda Express sells orange chicken?), I wasn't sure what to order so I figured I'd stick with soup ... a delicious steak soup. It wasn’t until the waiter walked away that I realized my moment of cannibal insensitivity. So when The Bar ordered a bottle of great Australian wine, I hoped it would help drown my non-vegan guilt, and quick. Throughout the evening, it became clear we were in completely different life stages despite the only 7-year age gap. When the restaurant closed at 10pm, I thought I was free to return to my sweatpants-and-Kix-Cereal, 24-year-old ways. Wrong. Turns out, the Aussie wanted to stop at a bar ... or

three. By this point, I was exhausted from a day of work and evening of conversation but wanted to be a good sport so I nursed a Coors Light at each bar while he got pretty hammered on several Rum & Cokes. This was the point where stuff turned weird. By bar #2, the now-inebriated Australian had decided that he liked my hair. No, really liked my hair … in a hair fetish way. 15 minutes of playing with my tresses, massaging my head, and commenting on the color triggered one of my latent germaphobia episodes, so needless to say I was not into this situation at.all. Around this time I figured out why the guy seemed so old – he was 37, not 31. When he realized that I had been quoted a younger age, he patted me once more and cooed, "Is 37 too old?" Not wanting to hurt his old feelings, I faked an enthusiastic "No! That’s super young. People live to be 100 nowadays." At this point, I couldn't take the head massaging anymore and I told him that I needed to go home and finish work. This brilliant move prompted 10 minutes of The Bar trying to convince me to go home with him and “work from his place.” I politely declined The Bar’s requests and prayed for a cab to appear. Finally, he gave up and ended the date by saying he 100% wanted to hang out again. I ended the date thinking I 100% never wanted to leave my apartment again. Lessons Learned:

1. Age and perviness are not mutually exclusive 2. Australians are not always fun 3. I need to dye my hair fuschia 4. Germaphobia may be our body's natural defense

against harmful foreign objects

5. I never want to see his boomerang If The Bar calls for a second date, I'm going to tell him I have lice.