Uch

He got NO game

I wish this was a fictionalized account:

As I was loading groceries into my car in the Whole Foods parking lot this evening, I ran into a super cute, blonde British woman that I absolutely recognized from somewhere (no, not Maccers; I think I remember what Maccers looks like). We made that "I'm sure I know you from somewhere" eye contact and the lightning bolt hit simultaneously.

"I know you from the gym," she said stating the exact thought that had just crossed my mind. "Absolutely," I responded lamely as hell, while trying to think of her name and whether she was a trainer or a client.

"It's nice to see you out of gym clothes. I haven't been in for a while . . . I just got back from holiday in the Caribbean. Look at my nose, I got so burnt." She pointed to her little, pink whisp of a nose and wrinkled it in mock disgust.

"Oh, cool. What island did you go to?" O.K. figured out that she's a client, but still struggling with the name (and trying to put my bags in the trunk).

"No. No. It wasn't that kind of a holiday. We went on the Disney boat. It really wasn't much of a holiday."

"The Big Red Boat?" I cannot believe those four words actually crossed my lips.

"Uhhhh, I'm not exactly sure what boat it was. I was with my sister and my four young nieces and my mother and father; I never had a chance to relax. It's as if I returned to LA and need a holiday to recover from my holiday."

"Isn't that always how it is." The threshold has been crossed - I am a blithering idiot. I am wholly unable to think of anything remotely interesting to say. The drug moratorium begins forthwith. And I still cannot remember her name. "I always get back from a holiday [why the fuck am I now calling it a holiday???!!!!], and need another holiday to recover from the previous holiday." Shoot me now. Please. I beg of you. I actually find this woman attractive. She looks great in her workout clothes, even better than Sandy, in fact. What have I done?

There's a significantly awkward pause as I begin to put my groceries in the trunk. Why am I suddenly so uncomfortable and at such a loss for words? I am not usually this hopeless, am I?

"Well, uh, I'll see you at the gym. Nice to see you." She's beginning to hightail it toward the entrance.

"Yeah, it was good to see you. Take care. Have a good evening." It is as if I am watching some other me implode from high above.

She turns full away and enters the sliding doors. I finish loading the trunk and drive off, feeling somewhere between dejected and despondent (over my incompetence, not the woman).

Jason Bentley is playing the new single from The Streets on Metropolis when suddenly . . .

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn."

Amanda.

If you're playing along at home, please cross another off the prospective dating pool.