My first date with Seth Cohen of The O.C.
My first date with Seth will have been a long time coming. We were obviously friends beforehand, you know? Bringing our families together for Chrismukkah, grabbing black and white milkshakes after a show at the Baitshop, sleeping in tents at the mall for no discernible reason when suddenly, it hits us – we should give this thing the ole’ college try! (Not Brown, though. Any college but Brown. Sensitive subject. Don’t bring it up.)
On our first date, I’ll surprise Seth at the Baitshop during his shift. I’ll watch him awkwardly struggle to carry some empty milk crates from one side of the room to the other. Upon noticing me, he’ll gush an emphatic, “Hey!” clumsily dropping the milk crates to the ground in the process. “Hey,” I’ll reply, “made you a mixtape.” “Awesome,” he’ll say, grabbing the mixtape, which is actually a CD, from my hand. He examines the tracklist, which I’ve handwritten. “Boyz II Men. Very nice,” and I’ll know he means it. Unlike some men, Seth Cohen knows how to appreciate a mixtape. He’ll bend down and kiss my forehead, because Seth Cohen is tall and that’s what tall, curly-haired boyfriends in graphic tees do. He’ll bail on work because he doesn’t actually need a job, and he’ll drive us to the poolhouse in his mom’s car. We’ll play Tony Hawk’s Pro-Skater 3 for at least seven hours. I will be impressed by his Gymnast Plant-to-McTwist.
Date Score: 7/10
My first date with Jack Shephard of LOST
I will meet Jack online. “I know you live across the country, but I’d be happy to fly over there and take you out.” It seems a little ridiculous – what kind of guy would fly from LA to New York for one date? Still, I oblige – he is a surgeon after all, know what I mean?
I’ll be pleased by Jack’s five o’clock shadow and the way his whiskey-soaked words tumble out of his mouth. I’ll see his mania as refreshing; he’s not the buttoned-up doctor I expected him to be. “It was a six hour flight,” I’ll think, “Of course he had a drink or seven.”
After exchanging pleasantries, the conversation will devolve into a barrage of one-sided aircraft trivia. “Did you know they make airplane food more flavorful because your taste buds don’t work as well at high altitudes?” No, Jack. I didn’t. Please do bore me with more of this fascinating minutia. I am on the edge of my seat.
At the end of the night, we’ll hop in a cab together. “Coming up?” I’ll ask politely while hoping the answer is no. “I’ve gotta get to the airport, actually. Got a flight to catch!” No kidding.
Date Score: 2/10
My first date with Dan Humphrey of Gossip Girl
Dan and I will meet on Twitter. I’ll tweet, “Hey @DanHumphrey, loved your Vanity Fair article. Nice job :)” to get the ball rolling and like clockwork, I’ll receive an email minutes later. “@DanHumphrey (Dan Humphrey) is now following you on Twitter.” Sweet, I’ll think. I’ll then craft a simple, leading direct message: Have a piece I need help with. Show you mine if you show me yours.
Thus begins our email correspondence. In the midst of responding to email #47, he’ll write, “Some of your edits… they just aren’t making sense to me. Hey, tell you what. Why don’t we meet up and just… hash all of this out in person?”
We’ll agree to meet at a bar, because we both live in Williamsburg and god knows you’re not finding a table for two at any coffee shop past 10 a.m. “It’s so refreshing to meet up with someone without having to cross a bridge,” he’ll confide. “Tell me about it,” I’ll agree, though in truth I haven’t crossed a bridge since April.
Ten beers and several trips to the jukebox later, we close our tab and Dan insists on paying. “Why, Dan Humphrey – is this a date?” He looks down at me. “Do you… want it to be a date?” “I’m still deciding,” I tell him, “Let’s get something to eat until I’ve made up my mind.” I’ve already decided, of course. What I’m actually doing now is concocting a believable ‘woe-is-me’ monologue to deliver while we await our appetizers. Appealing to Dan’s protective, must-save-the-day nature is imperative if I want to score a second date or potentially, a bond-building pregnancy scare. As we walk arm and arm to dinner, I can practically taste dessert.
Date Score: 9/10
My first date with Dexter Morgan of Dexter
I’ll meet Dexter when he spots me getting mugged in an alleyway. “HEY,” he’ll grunt, “get away from her!” Dexter will then choke the perpetrator from behind while I watch in horror and amusement as he brings the thief to his knees. “You’re uh… you’re gonna kill him!” I smirk.
Once my mugger is unconscious (or dead), Dexter holds out a gloved hand and beckons me to take hold – “C’mon, we gotta get out of here.” “Wait, shouldn’t we… call the police or something?” His black, gloved fingers wave at me with urgency. “I am the police. Miami Metro Homicide. Let’s go.” A cop, I think, that’s sort of intriguing, maybe.
I grab his leather hand. “Why are you wearing gloves?” I mean, it’s summertime in Miami. Attention whore much?
“I was gardening.” A vigilante cop who gardens. Jackpot.
Dexter takes me to a diner, where we both drink hot tea despite the fact that it’s 84 degrees outside. “You really should be more careful,” he tells me. “I know,” I reply, “It’s just… I have nowhere to go.” My condo is being renovated. The conversation pauses for an uncomfortable minute. “I have a place you can stay, for a few days. Just until you get back on your feet. You can’t just wander the streets,” his expression turns from one of worry to one of smug satisfaction, “there are some real… monsters out there.”
“Tell me about it. Have you met my ex?” We laugh. “Well, it’s getting late. Let’s get going.”
Thirteen evergreen air fresheners hang from his rearview mirror. “It smells like mint and death in here,” I’ll remark. “Um, yeah. Just try to ignore it. I ate McDonald’s in here earlier.” I look him in the eye. “I relate.” He places a gloved hand on my lap as we drive off into the Miami sunrise.
Date Score: 5/10