Untangled 32: Chicken Lettuce Wraps

The day finally came, and I was heading to The Music City. Nashville didn’t start off great. When I landed, it was raining and dreary. The cab driver was awful—he almost crashed the car and demanded a forty percent cash tip, even though I didn’t have cash. On the bright side, hotel check-in was fine, and my room was nicer than I expected. So I got unpacked and prepared to finally meet this man I had been talking to for weeks. We had originally planned to get together at 2 p.m. for lunch, so I had about an hour and forty-five minutes to get dressed. Several times, while on the phone, I told him I didn’t do restaurant chains when I’m on vacation. I like to experience things native to that place. I’m a shameless tourist in every sense of the word. I made sure to send him links to places I found interesting. I wanted to be clear because I enjoyed our conversation, and I didn’t want him to have to read my mind without knowing me. I also asked if he had been to any of them; he said he had not. Surprisingly, he had not explored much of his hometown at all.

While doing some pre-travel scouting, I noticed that Sebastian Maniscalco would be in town at the Ryman for a comedy show while I was there. What were the chances?! I’d been wanting to see him live for a while, so on impulse, I got two tickets. This would be my gift to him for taking the time to show me around. I wore a super cute white cotton eyelet Kate Spade dress for our first in-person meeting. My hair was having a great day despite the rain, and my makeup knocked off five years. I pulled the ensemble together with David Yurman bracelet and hoops, Chloé perfume and vanilla hand cream. I’m from the school of “You never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

We agreed earlier that he would knock on my hotel room door as opposed to me hanging out in the lobby like I was looking for work. My nerves were all over the place waiting for the knock at the door. We had FaceTimed a couple of times and talked every day for a couple of months. Why was I acting like a teenager?! I had seen several pictures of him from his page as well. Those were of no real help because some pics were good, and others were kinda awful. My ex was the same way. Men don’t always photograph well. I was prepared for this to go either way.

At 2:05, there was a knock. I took a deep breath, tossed my hair, and opened the door.

My excited smile quickly faded. Y’all, I wasn’t ready. If I had initially seen him in person, I would’ve NEVER talked to him on any level. He was wearing a dingy black polo with a bacon collar and a dime-sized mustard stain on the chest. He had on wrinkled camouflage cargo shorts, black ankle socks, and old light gray gym shoes. He wasn’t wearing a watch or cologne. He also looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week. His fingernails were dirty, long, and jagged. He was sweating profusely, even though I was on the second floor, and he took the elevator. He was heavier than I could’ve known from FaceTime and social media pics. He carried his weight in the middle and had skinny legs and arms—think orange sitting atop two straws. I stood there in complete shock. I hadn’t accounted for this. The last two men I dated were always so neat and put together. They were clean-shaven and smelled good. I had never been out with a man who looked like he climbed out of a clothes hamper. Was this normal?! Nonetheless, no matter how he presented, I had to pull it together because I had no poker face.

I smiled and said, “Hey! Good to finally meet!” I extended my arm for a handshake, and he went in for a bear hug. While in this sweaty, unwelcome embrace, a faint smell of poop wafted to my nose. What was that?! Had he just passed gas?! No! It was his breath!!! It wasn’t like onion or garlic—it was like a rotten tooth, bleeding gums, or unchecked gingivitis. All at once, I suddenly and completely missed my ex.

I stood there having a low-key emotional breakdown, wishing my ex was here. I didn’t want to be there, I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to teleport back home and wait for another door step steak. Instead, here I was in another state, feigning interest in a man who couldn’t be bothered to get a haircut or shave to meet a woman he had such a crush on. I couldn’t get over his girth either. I don’t mind a man with a few extra “el bees” if he carries them well, but he didn’t. My ex was a thicker man, but like a football player. This was horrible. I didn’t want to be so vain, but it was hard. What if I presented myself like that? Would it be forgiven? The bigger problem was: Is this how he presents himself to the world? What message is being conveyed? And why?

He went to hug me again and tried to kiss me, but I stepped back. The ick had set in, and there was no coming back. I couldn’t be rude, could I? I had to make the best of a bad situation. I said, “So, where are we headed?” He said, “Lunch first, then I have two surprises.” I thought it might be okay… I put on my best fake smile and said, “Well, let’s go!”

When we got to his old bumper-sticker-laden jalopy with the rusty running boards, I realized I didn’t have it in me to do this. Especially when he opened the passenger side door for me and I saw the cluttered backseat and dirty Aztec seat covers. Shock became anger. I suddenly understood why his wife left him. This was nastiness and laziness.

I reluctantly got in the car, wishing I was wearing a hazmat suit instead of the dress that was TOTALLY being wasted on him. While scanning my surroundings I noticed the cup holders had brown, caked sludge in the corners. I thought it was coffee, but the more I thought about it, I realized it was most likely snuff—that would explain the mouth odor. I hadn’t asked if he chewed; I assumed he didn’t because he talked about not ever drinking or smoking, like I was on the award committee for clean living. To break the awkward silence, I asked, “Where are we heading for lunch?” He said, “What do you have a taste for?” I said, “I don’t know, what is big down here?” I then said, “I thought you said we would go to Husk?” He said, “What’s that?” I felt anger rising. He lied about opening the links I sent. I said, “It’s a farm-to-table here with great reviews.” He said, “Well, where is it?” I did a quick search and said, “It’s 18 miles away.” He said, “Oh, hell no, I’m not driving that far for snob food.”

I was speechless. I should’ve gotten a rental car. I wish I could be a mean girl for once in my life. I should’ve told him this is not gonna work and closed the door the moment I saw the mustard stain. I wasn’t a mean girl, so here I was, in a filthy car with a man who couldn’t be bothered to shave and who thinks 18 miles is far. He said, “So pick something else.” I said, “Well, what’s in the area? What are you guys known for?” He said, “Well, hot chicken of course, but I’m not driving out of the way for that either. There are restaurants all around: there’s Wendy’s, McDonald’s, PF Chang’s, oh, and Krystal’s —it’s better than y’all’s White Castle.”

That was it. I was in the Twilight Zone. He didn’t care, so neither did I. I decided I would not make nice. I would be a tourist, and he was the guide, and that was that. When I got back to Texas, I would be done. I said, “PF Chang’s is fine, I’ll get chicken lettuce wraps.”