Never mind that I have a menu. And a color palette.
“You’ll love it, I promise,” she says. “Do you have a fourth we could ask?”
Without permission, my mind conjures the image of Miles. I’m bound to make a complete fool of myself, so why would I want to do that in front of a man who will relentlessly tease me when I do?
“There will be other people there,” Lennon says. “So we won’t have a problem finding a fourth.”
“Will the other people have a problem when they realize how terrible I am at it?”
She laughs.
“No, seriously. I’m not coordinated,” I say. “I’m not exactly athletic.”
“That’s part of the fun,” she says. “Pickleball was invented for the nonathletic to pretend they’re playing tennis.”
I laugh.
“Actually, that’s not true,” she says. “It was invented by three dads in Australia who were just trying to entertain their kids.”
“You know the history of this sport?” I ask, a little surprised.
“I might be a little obsessed,” she says. “You might be too after you play.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, certain there isno wayI’ll ever be obsessed with pickleball, but unable to find a good enough reason to decline this invitation.
Am I really going to do this? I let out an audible groan. “I tried playing tennis once when I was a kid, and it did not go well. I whiffed on hitting the ball back, then tripped and skinned my knee so badly it made the court look like a crime scene.”
Lennon laughs, like I’ve just told a joke, and says, “I’ll text you the details. Just wear comfy clothes and bring water.”
Right.
I’m going to write “pickleball” on my list because it terrifies me, and also just so I can cross it right off.
I’m also done with the app. As indone.
After the Scott debacle, I went on two more app dates.
First there was Mark, who does something with the stock market that honestly sounds a bit shady. He took me to one of Chicago’s hidden speakeasies, which had the coolest interior—wood beam ceilings, a jazzy burnt-orange color scheme, leather couches, and sketchy paintings of music legends on the wall—Jimmy Hendrix, Ray Charles, James Brown.
There was a live jazz band, which was just as cool as the setting, but was so loud Mark and I had to shout to hear each other. When I opted for a mocktail instead of the Whiskey Lullaby that he suggested, he got a phone call and claimed he had to leave because he “had to take care of an emergency.”
He left me there, but I ended up having the best time chatting with the female bartender. I even got to meet the band, sending a selfie to Minnie with the words, “Date bailed but I’m thinking of becoming a groupie!”
A few days later, I met Barry in front of The Second City for an improv comedy show. I laughed the whole way through, but Barry didn’t even crack a smile. He looked utterly bored and even groaned a few times like he was offended. Afterward, he told me he studied acting in college and he “wasn’t impressed” and “could probably do better himself.”
When I didn’t come up with a response immediately (I amnottrained in the art of improv), Barry said, “So, do you want to come back to my place?”
I frowned.
“You just can’t stay the whole night,” he said.
And that’s when I realized Barry was under the impression that I was going to sleep with him.
“Wow. Well, thanks, Barry, but I think I’m actually going to head home,” I told him.
“Seriously?” He did nothing to hide his irritation.
“Yeah, I’m tired and—”
