I thought it couldn't get any worse ... and then he pulled his feet out.
Recently I went on a date with a friend of a friend. He was English, and I thought, "Why not?" (I never expected the foot fetish.) Reserve your judgment, please.
First he called me up and said, "You know, let's meet at Le Brasserie," which is my favorite restaurant in Tel Aviv. But, of course, I felt bad because it was expensive, and I didn't expect my first date to pay for dinner there. So, I offered something more laid back. He said, "Great, let's meet there at 9:30."
9:30 rolled around, I showed up, but he was late. Finally, he strolled in wearing a shirt and Bermuda shorts and clearly not showered. Ugh.
He said, "Hey, you know what? This place is out of control, let's go somewhere else." "OK," I thought, "I'll go with the flow."
We started to walk, and walk, and walk, passing a couple of decent places. He noticed a popular coffee shop and said, "Let's go here." In one fell swoop, we went from a 5-star restaurant to a junior Starbucks, but for some reason, I heard myself agreeing. Of course, I ordered coffee and Pellegrino—my medication of choice.
Not two minutes after we sat down, my date nodded to my breasts and asked unabashedly, "Are those real or silicone?" My jaw dropped. He followed up with, "Because that set is perfect for a tattoo."
"Um, well, um," I stammered. "You know the whole thing about Jews and tattoos," I muttered like an idiot.
I started looking for a way out for the next twenty minutes, but before I knew it, his shoes were off, his feet were on my lap, and (I kid you not) he said, "Would you mind tickling my feet?"
That's when I made like Helen Thomas and ran for the door. What a CREEP!
You can read more from Anna at annamshoshan.wordpress.com/