So what do you do when your date picks you up in a Lotus?
If you’re me, you walk towards the car with resistance and try to remember if it’s more rice rocket or Italian Stallion, and then you stand there like an idiot when he opens your door because you can’t figure out how to get into it.
Thankfully, the top was down (yes, you read that right) so I did not have to fold myself into thirds to get in the bucket seats. I just had to balance on the forefront edges of my 4-inch heels and crawl from the curb, over some sort of built-in bench meant for call girls, and into the leather upholstered pod that barely hovered above the ground.
Pants. Always a good choice.
We settled into our seats and he offered heat, a Burberry scarf, a blanket, and driving gloves…you know, just in case I got cold. Or, you could just put the top up?
Then he pulled the embarrassingly loud insect on wheels away from my landlord’s curb, where there is a cone purposefully placed so that no one parks there, and I glanced up to see her sour face peering through the blinds.
I know, I know, I hate me too.
I tried to sink down as far as I could as we swerved and glided through the streets of the Mission, but there was just nowhere to go. It wasn’t even dark out. And every time we passed someone without earphones, the airplane engine of his car would growl and everyone in a three mile radius would turn and stare. I resisted the urge to throw the blanket over my head.
Upon arrival at the restaurant, I made a half-hearted attempt to get out of the car on my own. There was scratching at the inside wall, lunges, near ankle breaks, and finally a deep squat and leap while he hoisted me to my feet.
If the date didn’t go well, I was consoled with the possibility of a taxi ride home.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), the date went well enough to warrant another ride in the impotence mobile, so I had to get into the car at least one more time. Only now it was after two glasses of wine and a couple hot toddies. Right.
He opened the door and like a mover with a large piece of furniture on his back, I approached the seat from one angle, then another. I bent my knees, leaned heavily on his hand, put paw prints all over his windows, but each time my ankles would wobble and my balance would falter. Finally, because I am one classy b*tch, I just put my hands on the ground and literally crawled into the seat.
As we navigated the empty streets, waking up every poor schmuck that forgot to close his window before bed, he suggested sushi for date #2. I had to swallow a smirk before answering, “Why don’t we meet there?”