Bradley

Apparently my encounter with Chad taught me nothing. As a youngest sibling in the family order, I am an expert at learning from the mistakes of others who have gone before me. Making my own mistakes, however, this may be completley new territory for me.

I found myself giddy with excitement about Bradley, mostly for the wrong reasons. Bradley was a former professional athlete turned business executive after an injury ending his career. Furthermore, he was a self proclaimed "family man" first and foremost now. Honestly, I couldn't help being a little impressed by his credentials.

I've never been the type of girl who swoons over the jock. I satisfied that fantasy long ago in high school when I made out with the quarterback of the football team. I quickly decided it was over rated, and that I just couldn't be with someone who needed more adoration than I did.

In the spirit of dating with an open mind, I decided I should get to know this guy. Just because he had a physique that made the actors in 300 look puny didn't mean there wasn't a smart, sensitive man hiding underneath. I mean, who am I to judge someone simply because he has a rock hard body? Sheesh.

Bradley showed much interest in me, texting me often. We would chat throughout the day and then I would hear from him sometimes before bed. He seemed sincere as he wished me sweet dreams and would tell me he looked forward to finally meeting in person. This text message courting went on for weeks due to our busy schedules. It was seeming almost impossible for us to find a time to meet in person. Would I ever actually meet Mr. Sexy?

"What if he's still married? That would explain why he's too busy to actually come meet me in person." I theorized over dinner with the girls one night.

"He's not married! You are being ridiculous." Napa asserted. "However, you really need to be cautious with a guy like this. Pro athletes have their own rules they live by." Having spent a significant amount of time around athletes for her profession, Napa really understood the mentality of men in Bradley's position.

"Right. I hear you. But LOOK at him!" I retorted as I held my phone out to show her a photo of him at the beach with his children. By now, my previous dating lesson had become a distant memory and I was right back to the ogling phase.

"Yeah, you've got to go meet that!" Napa agreed, wide-eyed.

Napa's words stuck with me, and made me feel restless. I felt annoyed the next time Bradley sent me sweet texts. He was working very hard to keep me interested, but seemed to have no intention of actually spending time with me.

"I'm honestly a little anxious to meet you in person." Bradley texted one day.

I rolled my eyes and humored him. "Why is that?"

"Well, you are so beautiful and much younger than me. And I have children. I am just surprised that you are interested in me." He responded.

I knew that I was supposed to be flattered by his "honest" response, but I still felt unamused. Maybe I would have thought it was cute of him two weeks ago, but at this point it was past endearing. I wasn't looking for a modern equivalent of a pen pal.

"Well I'm about to lose interest if I don't actually meet you in person soon!" I playfully responded.

"Alright. I hear you. Let's meet for lunch tomorrow." He offered.

"Done." I responded, relieved.

I was looking forward to meeting Bradley. I was quickly losing interest in a man who only existed though the little chirps my phone made at me when he texted. If I wanted to date an electronic device, it most certainly would not be my cell phone.

"What is your ETA? I don't have much time." He texted me as I was on my way to meet him the next day. I wasn't late at all, but he was making me feel anxious and rushed. I responded that I was close and that he needed to not get his panties in a bunch.

I walked in, and he had already ordered. "This is promising" I sarcastically thought to myself. I said a quick hello, grabbed a drink, and sat down to join him. He had an anxious energy about him, which did not put me at ease. I sipped on my diet coke while he worked on stuffing the biggest burrito I have ever seen in his mouth.

Bradley had a "20 Questions" style of interacting with me. Interestingly, he seemed to think that all 20 questions should be about him. "Ask me anything you want!" He said with a big grin as we worked through some small talk. He had beautiful eyes and an alluring smile. It was the type of face, coupled with his massive stature, that I imagine many people had trouble saying "no" to.

I spent most of lunch asking him random questions. Any time there was a slight lull in the conversation, he would impatiently encourage more questions. "Ask me anything, really. What do you want to know?" I started to feel like I was interviewing him for a job of some sort. Even when I would try to elaborate on a subject we stumbled on, he interrupted and instructed me to ask more questions.

He would sometimes take a break from the interview to look me in the eyes for a moment, smile, and then tell me how beautiful my eyes and smile were in person. He had the sort of obvious charm that made me instantly distrustful of him.

"Look at those weird people!" he laughed and directed my attention to the restaurant window. There was an eco-friendly local coffee shop right next to us. He was pointing out some artist-type hipsters who were walking in.

"What is weird about them?" I asked, growing offended. Clearly, he had not paid attention to me when I told him about my background as an art major in undergrad. While I had traded holy jeans and hemp for heels and dresses years ago, I still felt kindred with the quirky artist community.

"They just look....weird." He responded. I gave him a good look over, as he sat there in his boat shoes, cargo shorts, and polo shirt. He looked like he would prefer to never leave the upper-class suburbs he had grown accustomed to, except to grab a quick latte from the nearest Starbucks.

"Yeah, I bet you look weird to them too. " I responded and laughed. He rolled his eyes and smirked.

There is this thing that happens to me sometimes. Occasionally, I have an innate desire to be a rabble-rouser. I blame my Mom for it entirely. She was always a shining example of an independent, thoughtful, competent woman. After years of watching her out-talk salesmen who tried to take advantage of her, she became my hero.

Living in the South has not extinguished this part of me, rather it has helped me to refine the method in which I rouse rabbles. Southerners are beautifully subtle in their backhanded comments. It took me 6 months to translate the Southern version of "Oh bless her heart" to actuality mean "That poor idiot".

The rabble-rouser in me just couldn't keep my mouth shut. I had already determined within the first 10 minutes that this man, while as sexy as I had imagined, was not my soul mate. There was no reason I couldn't have a little fun with him, though.

"So, do you recycle?" I asked. Bradley looked at me as if that were one of the most pointless questions to waste his generous 20 answers on.

"Yeah. I guess so. I mean whenever I remember to. " He responded.

"I really try to be environmentally conscious." I forged on. "I hate that I drive a SUV, so I try really hard to conserve the environment in other ways." Bradley's eyes were glazing over in boredom.

"You know, I try to shut off the water when I do dishes, and I don't always flush the toilet." I continued. The glazed look on his face melted off as his brow furrowed and his mouth gaped open.

"That is so gross." He responded sharply.

"Wasting water is gross." I retorted. I drew a little tally mark on the table with my finger. One rabble-rouser point for me.

"Well, I've got to head back to the office" Bradley sighed.

He walked me out to my car. I felt his eyes on me, checking me out. I turned around and made some sort of joke, allowing me to slow my pace to walk next to him. He hugged me goodbye, gave me a sloppy kiss, and said he was looking forward to seeing me again.

As I drove away, I heard my phone chirp at me. "You get a 10 for looks, 9 for personality, 8 for humor, and a 10 for your ass" he texted.

Had he really just RATED me? To my face...err...my phone? Never mind the fact that my ass IS in the looks category, this was a little ridiculous. I replied a simple "Thanks" and went back to work scratching my head. Apparently my rabble-rousing was no match for Mr. Shallow. I erased my self determined point. Back to zero.