Sex and Trivialities...Tatiana - The "K" Bomb

J dropped the "k-bomb" on our third date. Father's Day was around the corner and I had asked him if he was going home to see his dad. Little did I know. "Well, sort of," he said, suddenly very interested in his pinky nail. "It's kind of, well... it's my Father's Day, too."

Excuse me?

J got a befuddled look on his face. "I'm not sure if I told you this or not…" His voiced trailed off like he was deep in thought and really and truly could not remember if he had told me. And then,"I have an eight-year old daughter." This meant he was 22 when she was born.

And thus, the I-have-a-kid- bomb was dropped (or, the "k-bomb" as my friends have since dubbed it) and I had a new question to ask guys I date – do any small children call you Dad?

It's amazing how your standards change over time. When I was 16 the qualities I looked for in a boyfriend centered largely on how well he could dance and how cute he looked in a baseball hat. But at 24 my checklist has shifted to the more mundane; being employed and not living with his mom rank high on my list. And now I have one more criteria. I'm not saying I have anything against guys with kids, but dating someone with one was just one more rite of passage into the post-college dating scene.

After going on a few boring dates when I first moved to the city, I quickly decided that all dates should all be one of two things: either completely amazing or horrendous enough to make for a fantastic, I-can't-believe-that-actually-happened-to-you story.

So far I have a lot of good stories.

There was the stalker-in-training who routinely called me 15 minutes after sending an email to find out why I hadn't written back yet. There was the guy with a Jersey accent who ended every phone call with "ciao." And then there were the numerous blind dates set up by people with extremely bad taste. This included a lunch with the grandson of my grandmother's friend, chaperoned by my grandmother's friend. It went something like this: "Michael, tell her how smart you are." "I'm really smart." "Michael, tell her about your thesis." "I wrote a thesis."

Despite the dating disasters, I remained admittedly naïve, certain that sooner or later fate would intervene. Three weeks ago when I met J, I thought fate had finally come through.

Thanks to a New York City heat wave, I pulled a never-to-be-lived-down move and fainted at the gym. The general manager came to my rescue. J., the very hot general manager. And from there it just kept getting better. He had an extra ticket to Dave Matthews, did I want to join him? My favorite band, insanely romantic songs. Um, I think I can make it. He grew up two towns away from where I was raised in Rhode Island. Kismet. He loved to cook and made me dinner on date two. Amazing. Fantasy blurred out minor imperfections, like occasional comments that would make Newt Gingrich proud and an obsession with tanning salons. I wasn't planning the wedding (as if I would admit to that in print) but there were certainly visions of a hot summer romance.

But then he dropped k-bomb. And then he tried to convince me to go to the tanning salon with him. And then he began an email with "Whazz up???" And I accepted that it was just a heat wave that brought us together, not fate. Not this time, anyway. But at least it makes it for a good story.

Tatiana