Sometimes the second impression is the best one.
After two years of brown-nosing, I received a raise from my employer. I decided my first purchase with it would be a new entertainment center, since the one I had was pretty much looking like the leaning tower of Pisa. I hopped in my car and drove right over to IKEA. You know the go-to place for any cheap chick who wants to look like she is trendy and has money. I purchased my new piece of furniture, went home, grabbed a screwdriver, and sat down in the middle of my living room floor with all the pieces of my soon-to-be, lovely new entertainment center laid out in intimidating piles in front of me. As soon as I gazed upon the directions that were provided on how to put this thing together, I got an instant migraine. I think building a frigging atom bomb would have been easier. Frustrated, I came up with two solutions for my current dilemma: Bring the damn thing back to the store and try to bribe the sales guy with a “Benny” for the display model; or, get a boyfriend who could do this for me. I chose the latter.
I had a prospect already in mind. He was a 6’2” guy who went by the nickname Tank. He was my hair dresser’s brother. She tried fixing me up with him about a month prior to my IKEA purchase. In fact, she had him swing by during my first Keratin treatment so we could meet. I lifted my head up from the sink, saw the Ed Hardy shirt tightly wrapped around his fake baked body, and knew I wouldn’t be taking a ride on the Tank anytime soon. However, my outlook had changed. I was now a desperate girl in need of my flat screen to be displayed in a Vertical manner. I recalled how she told me that he was a construction worker which meant he was good at putting things together. Tank seemed like the perfect choice. Also, my stock of available men was at its all time low. Bottom line; the Jersey Shore reject would have to do. At least for a while.
I stopped into the salon and asked my hair dresser if her bro was still flying solo. She said “Yes!” (This didn’t surprise me much). Before long she jotted down his number for me. I called Tank and asked him to meet me at the new Latin Fusion restaurant in town. He replied with an anxious “Hell yeah,” got off the phone and (I assume) immediately started applying a pound of spiking glue to his hair for our date. I put on my best date night dress, a little red number from Bebe, blew a kiss to the IKEA box on my living room floor, and headed out to eat with my new prospect/repairman.
Tank showed up on time and with his hair totally super glued. My assumption about his grooming was correct, but my assumption about Tank being a total meathead wasn’t. He was full of compliments about how I looked and he even pulled the seat out for me. He stuttered a little bit when ordering our Sangrias and Ceviches. I thought to myself—could Tank, who was pretty much built like a Tank, be nervous? After the second course, and second Sangria, he began to loosen up. He was so easy to talk to and he did something a man hadn’t done to me in a very long time—he asked me tons of questions about myself. He wanted to know all about me and, you know what? I actually felt comfortable telling him. Tank and I could have stayed there for hours talking, but once our waitress pulled out the vacuum cleaner, we figured that was our cue to get out. I left Tank with a steamy kiss in the parking lot, a promise of a second date, and our Ropa Vieja leftovers.
My first date with Tank made me realize a couple of things. First, that I may have been a little too quick to judge a man solely by his exterior. Second, and most importantly, I was even more critical of my own ability to read directions. The next day I put together that seemingly 1,000 piece entertainment center all by myself. It took me five hours, two Advil’s, three broken finger nails, and about 20 uses of the Lord’s name in vain, but I did it. I basked in the glory of being a smart, independent woman. Tank came over that night for some pizza and to watch the Jersey Shore marathon with me. Oh, and I also had him replace a shower head and carry the old entertainment center out to the dumpster. Well, just because I found out I didn’t need a man to do manual labor, didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take advantage of the benefits of having one around.
By:Gianian Nelson/Betty Confidential