Your Father Isn’t… Oliver

31 Oct

Sorry guys… things are going to get un-chronological for a bit. I’ve got backlogged dates (yea, I know, it’s awful) from various points in my dating career and since I screwed up my blogging research by meeting someone awesome, this is what you get. Enjoy! This one is from this summer, not too long after I moved to New Jersey.


Oliver surprises me. After only two online messages of the terribly mundane variety, he invites me out for a drink. Since I’ve got nothing else to do, I say yes.

In his profile picture, Oliver is really quite attractive but in person he looks like Mr. Clean’s completely average, red-eyebrowed cousin. Of course, a completely average looking guy who photographs well seems like a step up from past dates, so I’m pretty pleased with my choice.


The bar we meet at has an awesome sign out front, “If you can’t stop in, smile as you drive past!” I immediately love this little pub, so I’m feeling very at home while I wait for him to arrive.

He’s late enough that by the time he arrives he has to explain why he’s soaking wet; it was still sunny when I arrived. As the raindrops on his bald head sparkle in the overhead lights, I make a mental note that my love of all things shiny does not extend to scalps.

Oliver is another case of ‘perfect on paper.’ We have so much in common that we breeze through typical date conversations because we just agree and move on. In some ways, it’s great. The talk flows from topic to topic with little effort and I’m genuinely impressed with Oliver.

Trouble starts when we start talking about work and graduate school. I’m in the 5th circle of MBA application hell and he’s just finished his MBA, so he has plenty of advice. At first, it’s great. Business school is pretty much all I can think about these days and I’ve finally found someone who can speak the language… if he would let me.

It takes about ten minutes to realize that he hasn’t asked a single question about my plans for business school. Instead, he has been talking in a breathless stream about his various accomplishments, from grad schools he had been considering to promotions at work to trophies earned in athletic events that I’m fairly certain took place in elementary school. Without even pausing to find out if I had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting into the schools I mentioned when I first broached the topic, he launched into the braggiest humble-brag I’ve ever encountered… and I lived in DC for eight years.

When he starts bragging about his 2-year-old nephew as a personal accomplishment (Oliver sees him twice a year, but “my brother’s not the brightest, so I teach the kid most of what he knows”), I make a break for the bathroom. When he brags about his uncle installing the hand-driers in the bar’s bathrooms, I motion for the check.

Oliver hugs me goodbye and confidently tells me he’s looking forward to our second date, assured that the hard part is over now that I have heard the litany of his awesomeness. The storm has passed by the time we leave the bar and a beautiful sunset glows across the parking lot, its pink and purple rays reflecting off Oliver’s glistening head as he walks to his car.


Kids, Oliver is not your father. Your dad will be so awesome that he won’t need to tell anyone about it. People will just know.


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