Last Friday, I met a girl from Hinge at a bar that was too hip for me to be in. We had exchanged phone numbers the weekend prior, and I had been on the fence about actually meeting her in person. Because, well, as a seasoned veteran of Hinge, I know that things can turn south quickly. My friends had no definitive plan when I reached out to a few of them around 5:30 p.m. So, on my way home from work, I decided to text this stranger and see if she’d be up for drinks around 8 o’clock. Let’s call her “Sarah.” Sarah acquiesced, and I went home to get a shower, a shave, and crush some leftover spaghetti I had made the night prior.
It should be mentioned that I live in a sub-standard apartment with a roommate who shares in my affinity for domestic beer and morally loose women. It’s been described affectionately as “a total shitbox” and a “pit,” which only exacerbates a question that comes to the forefront of my brain at the end of each month: how is my rent this high? Whatever, I sleep there.
Anyways, she suggested we meet at a bar in her neighborhood, which might as well have been Siberia when you’re coming from my place. A trendy area due west of my apartment, I knew it would be a trek to get out there, and I also instantly knew I was in over my head with this girl.
Going on these Hinge or Bumble dates is never not weird for me. It’s essentially a blind date, except you can stalk the living shit out of them beforehand on your app of choice. I like to think that I’m pretty outgoing, though, so that weirdness that I feel is mixed with a general sense of excitement and mystery about how the night will turn out. In short, it’s just good old fashioned fun. Ya know, minus the whole using a complicated algorithm to find a person to have sex with. There’s nothing I enjoy more than some witty banter over cocktails. Especially when it’s with a pretty girl. Anyone that dates regularly knows there is a mental war being waged the second you walk into the bar or restaurant to meet.
She had suggested a bar that I would stick out in. I knew it, she knew it. I love khakis and wool sweaters from LL Bean. This bar would be full of mustachioed men and people who claim they love Bill Murray, despite the fact that they’ve never seen or heard of Caddyshack. She was trying to throw me off my game. A power play for sure, and her suggestion of this particular bar gave me the idea that she definitely pulls in more money than me. I thought I paid too much for my apartment. I would see her apartment in Hipster Village later on that night. She most certainly paid double what I was forking over. But (and this is a very big but), I didn’t care.
She looked good in all of her pictures, and I had nothing else to do on this unseasonably warm Friday night in December. Two bus transfers got me to my destination in 40 minutes. This would have been a 25-dollar Uber ride, so the bus was my best option. She was already waiting for me at the bar in question when I walked in. I was inundated with e-cig vapor and jeans with holes in them. Gross.
Not my crowd, but again, this girl was a smoke. Morgan Freeman in Se7en talked to me internally. “Stay away now, don’t – don’t come in here. John Doe has the upper hand!” Sarah most certainly had the upper hand this night. I took a deep breath as I got my ID back from the bouncer, and as I approached she quickly turned to Phoebe, the poet/part-time bartender and asked for two Bulleits, straight.
I hadn’t been there two minutes and this girl had already taken my lunch money and stuffed me in a locker. Straight up emasculating me. Told me the first round was on her because I had to schlep it on the bus for 40 minutes to get there. Fair enough, I thought. I’d turn the tide in this battle of the brains with some shit I’d read (and by read, I mean quickly scanned for buzzwords and important quotes) in The New Yorker about Marco Rubio. Little did I know this girl was about to dominate me for the next five hours, mentally and physically. Arriving before me, coupled with her ordering fucking bourbon neat to start the night was a skirmish victory for her.
As the night progressed, it was clear that we were like-minded individuals. We had similar vocabularies. We both agreed that Muenster cheese was overlooked and largely ignored by the general population when making a turkey sandwich. We both thought Game of Thrones had become stale, and we were three small-batch bourbons deep apiece. It was at this point, I suggested we go dancing at a bar nearby that I knew of. She countered with an offer to go back to her place for some red wine. I said sure. Inside I was freaking out. Away games, man.
Taking a girl back to your place is inherently easier than going to their place. So many things can go wrong during an away game. You don’t get performance anxiety in your own bed. You are Costanza when he’s “on.” Jokes are funnier inside your apartment. Wine tastes better. There is nothing like home-field advantage.
When you’re at their place, throw all of that out the window. Things go wrong during away games. Always have, always will. Can you power through the adversity? Can you compete while thousands cheer for your demise (or in this case, her roommate awkwardly sitting in the living room with the two of you)? An event like this needs no buildup. No superfluous adjectives. The magnitude of it is already known by both parties. Shouts to Al Michaels, by the way.
As it turns out, the roommate was a non-factor. She was having a quiet night alone in the shared living room when we arrived. We exchanged pleasantries, and I’m pretty sure Sarah was in the bathroom texting said roommate about getting the hell out of there. When Sarah emerged, the roommate retreated to her room. Advantage, me.
Sarah poured me a fat glass of cab sauv. The Smith’s “Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want” played quietly on the overpriced record player in the corner of the room. Clothing was getting removed. Light kissing. A move from the sectional to her bedroom. You get the idea. Fast forward to 7:30 the next morning. I’m still naked. And I’m soaking wet.
“Not again.” I think to myself. No way I pissed the bed. I would have woken up. Sarah still asleep next to me, it appeared that she was the culprit, although I honestly couldn’t be sure. I was three sheets to the wind six hours prior, and the last thing I remember is rolling over to one side of the bed and passing out. Two paths diverged in a small bedroom. One, I could blame it on her and see if it stuck. I had serious concerns that this would end poorly for me. Two, I could sneak out of there before she woke up and never speak to her again. Something about urine that just ruins what was once a good thing.
I decided to play it out. I enjoyed my time with this girl. I told myself to get off my high horse. If going pro in bed wetting was a thing, I’d be a first ballot hall of famer.
So naturally, she woke up confused. I told her I thought she may have soiled the bed last night, and she sheepishly agreed. That she admitted to this almost immediately left my mind in a metaphorical pretzel. It shouldn’t have been that easy. I thought for sure she’d counter with a line about how she’s never done that before. She didn’t, and I left shortly after that, confused about what had just happened.
Back safely in my shitbox, I took a shower and tried to remember anything that would give me a clue as to who wet the bed. Nothing came. I guess we’ll never really know for sure who peed on that fateful night in mid-December. I do know that I like this girl, though. She was quick to take responsibility for the pee party, and it confused the hell out of me.
Is it sick that I want to see her again next weekend? I don’t know. That’s not for me to say. If peeing in your own bed is wrong, then goddamnit I don’t want to be right. This could be the beginning of a beautiful three to four month relationship. Rest assured, I will undoubtedly find a way to muck this up. But shit, the way in which she shrugged this incident off with such poise was incredible. Next time you’ve got the option between a night out with buddies or a date with a stranger, go with the latter. Maybe you’ll get lucky like I did and get peed on. Happy Hunting. .
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