There are two kinds of people in this world: Neil Diamond fans and everyone else. There are further two kinds of people: pet owners and everyone else. Then, there are even further two kinds of people: dog people and cat people. I'm a fan of the Jewish Elvis, have never owned a pet and sort of prefer cats because we're both solitary hunters. Given those personality characteristics, I'm almost completely undateable. But I luck out here and there.
Her name was (is, I suppose) Melissa. We met in a martial arts class – it wasn't cardio kickboxing. Our technique is a brutal mixed martial art called Krav Maga. We joked around and chatted and generally enjoyed sweating on one another. I enjoyed her company and asked her to get ice cream after our class. She wondered if I was secretly 11, and suggested we go for beer instead.
After we pumped down a couple of Steveweisers and laughed about a person or thing that we were superior to, we decided to hang out again outside of class. She also told me that she was taking our class because she'd found herself in date rape-y situations and wanted to defend herself. Between the appointed hang and the first beer, we had a few classes and did what can, in hindsight, only be described as "flirt" with each other. Having sisters, a handful of close lady friends and fairly low self-esteem, I've lived under the idea that men and women can sleep in the same bed platonically and that most *gals* aren't into me.
When we finally hung out, I wasn't nervous because: A) I'm as cool as the second coolest guy from LMFAO (still pretty cool); and B) I had no idea this is a date. Straight guys and girls who only sort of know each other get steaks, drink beer and see Kate Beckinsale movies ALL THE TIME. Dating Disaster: He Said I Looked Like…