And the Hippos were Soiled in Their Tanks

So I was supposed to go out on like a real date with this guy I had met online. Not like meet for a drink/coffee, but a real date. He planned it and everything. It was to start at the zoo. Since I used to live just a few blocks from the zoo, I thought I would walk there to meet him.

It was a Saturday and I was in super training mode for a half Ironman triathlon, which meant I had gotten up at 5:30 a.m. and ridden my bike 50 miles, followed by an hour run. When I got home, the exhaustion, coupled with the intense heat of my shoebox of an apartment, caused me to fall asleep. For two hours.

I woke up on the couch, still in my tri clothes, already late for the date. There was no time to shower and I just hoped he wouldn't notice all the dog fur sticking to my still-sunscreen-covered, sweaty limbs. I threw on some clothes and deodorant, and ran out the door.

Although driving would be quicker, I decide to stick to my original plan and walk to the zoo. Only now I have to run. Like sprint. I texted the date real quick and said sorry I was running late and that I would be there in a few minutes and proceeded to run the few blocks through the park to the zoo.

Because I wanted to look like a cool hipster I wore the official shoe of the cool hipster: Converse All-Star sneakers. Without socks. And despite what the Harlem Globetrotters say, Chuck Taylors are terrible, terrible athletic shoes. After 100 yards I can feel the blisters forming, but it's too late to turn back now. I hobble the rest of the way to the zoo, half running, half limping. I spot a guy that looks vaguely like the guy in the online pics sitting on a bench. He's dressed a little too nicely for a date at the zoo...

At this point I realize I'm sweating profusely. It's 90 degrees. I have pit stains. I look down at my feet and the blisters have now apparently popped because blood is soaking through my shoes in several spots, turning the blue canvas dark purple. Hopefully he won't notice. I try to walk like a normal human being.

We amble (by amble I mean limp) around the zoo, looking at animals, commenting on how weird/cute/ugly they are and making getting-to-know-you small talk. Then we walk into the inside half of the hippo enclosure where you are able to view the hippos swimming in their pool. No other zoo patrons are inside the hippo house and it immediately becomes clear why. It stinks. Really bad. Not like your typical manure-and-hay farm smell of livestock and zoo animals, but really, really horrible. Like something died. There is hippo poop everywhere and it's obvious this animal is experiencing some severe digestive problems. This, coupled with the stifling afternoon heat and humidity from the water is too much. We can't just ignore it. The situation must be acknowledged.

You know what's more awkward on a first date than talking about a hippo swimming around in its own diarrhea and speculating about what it must have eaten? I'll tell you. Going to a sushi restaurant and trying unsuccessfully to stifle giggles as you discuss ordering rolls with names like "Multiple Orgasm," "Booty Call," "69," "Climax," and my personal favorite, "Foreplay." Yeah, I'm 12.

And this was a fancy sushi restaurant in a swanky part of town that people like me have no business being in. I was waaay under-dressed because he didn't tell me we were going there. He just made a reservation and it was a really fun surprise when we show up in the part of town where all the Botoxed women wear high heels and clothes that accentuate their boob jobs to run mundane daily errands, like going to the grocery store. (VH1 NEEDS to take its Real Housewives series to this part of town.)

Needless to say, this was not a place where someone can show up unshowered, wearing their bloody Converse All Stars, sweaty tank top and jean shorts. Did I mention I was wearing jean shorts? Yeah, I was. Not like the short, cut-off, trashy kind, but the longish kind that are too tight to fit a cell phone in the pocket and make it difficult to ride a bike/run to the zoo in. Not that this in any way excuses wearing jean shorts. I told you, I had just woken up.

I'm pretty sure the restaurant had a dress code and that's why we were forced to eat on the patio. The air-conditioned dining room was apparently reserved for diners who don't look all homeless-hipster chic.

Anyway, by now my feet hurt, I'm still sweating, I'm not even drunk and all this pretending that this ill-fated date is actually super fun is exhausting. So I gave up. Against my better judgement, after seriously considering taking my shoes off and walking home barefoot, and without knowing for sure that this guy wasn't a serial killer, I let him give me a ride home.

Amazingly, this guy called me again so maybe I wasn't as much of a hot mess as I thought I was. He was nice and interesting and all, no complaints there. But the embarrassment of that afternoon of horrors was too much for me to ever face him again.

I don't know what it is, but talking about poop and sex with strangers, followed by an impromptu trip to the nice part of town never fails to make me feel awkward.