Armand Legg
Guys, guys, guys!
Bowling? More fun than a knapsack full of monkeys and whipped cream! Here I should disclose that I’m truly terrible at bowling. Imagine Barbra Streisand trying to rap about gettin’ ho’s. I don’t think I broke 52 the whole time. It’s fine, though, since bowling lends itself well to double entendres, at which Armand Legg is quite skilled: “Do it like you mean it!” “Slower and gentler!” “Find the one with the big thumb-hole!”
Also, major ups (as the kids say. Maybe.) to Armand for being the best-prepared guy on the planet. Homeboy - and O! How my whiteness rises off the page like a poisonous fog when I type that word - not only made reservations at Bowlmore Lanes, he also brought along a brand-new pair of socks in case I was wearing heels and needed some foot-sleeves.
This legendary level of preparation brings us to another pressing issue which has come to my attention over the past 5 days: these guys have got it down.
Look. I’m picky and I’m judgemental. I’m an undercover bitch, and yet inexplicably charming. If these guys weren’t elbow-slashing sweet I would extricate myself after 40 minutes. Not even 45 minutes. 40. 2/3 of an hour. That’s not even a real fraction. But each date so far has averaged 3 and a half hours, and has been more fun than the Swiss Family Robinson. I keep getting emails from those of you who follow the blog accusing me of being too gentle or too forgiving. No. I am mean. Even under the truth-serum spell of two whiskey sours and three Blue Moons, I can report that they. Really. Are. That. Great.
The niggling question is how. How did they figure this out? How did they learn to hold doors and touch but not grope and get drinks and ask smart questions and be cool? They didn’t know how to do this in college and they sure as hell didn’t know how to do this in high school. Somewhere along the line, guys my age evolved.
