A Date is a Date ... or is it?

This post is brought to you by procrastination, yurts, and mediocre Mexican food.

Once upon a time, a few weeks ago, a girl met a guy in a coffee shop for an introductory date. 
The girl knew a few things about the guy. One of the things she knew was that he owned land in New York, on which he had built a yurt. She knew this because he had told her. Twice. She also knew that he was uncircumcised.  It was right there, on his profile.  When she replied to his email, she mentioned, facetiously, that guess what! she was too!  He replied seriously that he was thankful she had been spared the trauma of female genital mutilation.  This maybe should have been her first clue. FGM is serious, and worthy of serious discussion, but there is a time and a place and maybe if you don't appreciate snark we are not meant to be.  The second clue was that he showed up in board shorts (in case anyone is in doubt, a GROWN ASS MAN should never show up to a first date wearing clothing which was originally intended for an athletic activity), sporting a braided mustache and carrying a skateboard.  Any of these things, individually, is not a dealbreaker.  However, the overall impression was a little too Peter Pan for this girl's taste.  Also, when a girl spends a good portion of the day grooming herself to a state of irresistible hotness, she expects at least a tiny effort in return.  The third clue was that, within minutes of meeting, they were embroiled in a (not so) riveting discussion about the extraction of wisdom teeth. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so, bolstered by her excellent Americano (shout out to Muddy Waters!) she gamely agreed to walk to the water and then grab dinner. In her defense, she was starving, and perhaps harbored a hope that the conversation would pick up over food. A vain hope, as it turned out. After he had told her not only the diameter of his yurt (17', if you care), but the diameters of his friends' yurts, their names, much of their life histories, their PARENTS' names, and exactly how he had portioned out the inheritance from his grandmother (a third of it went into building the yurt, again, if you care), she began to have vivid mental pictures of the kinds of movies which, at a certain stage, feature montages of women subject to excruciating blind dates. Yes, she was living out her own romantic comedy ... not, however, the way she might wish. It became hard for her to keep a straight face. Long story long, after uh huh'ing her way back up the hill with him, she formed a desperate plan. At the top of the hill, she (to her eternal shame, perhaps) lied about the location of her car, gave him firm handshake and a vague reassurance, and fled into the night. The moral of the story? Always start a first date with good coffee, to provide at least a degree of redemption. Alternately, never trust a man who doesn't laugh at one's wisecracks. Nothing wrong with yurts, though. As long as one has the conversational skills to back them up.