"A Memorable First Date"

by Tibbytoes

This was not a bad date in the sense that my date was at fault in any way (she could not have been more lovely or delightful), nor do I advocate humor at the expense of other people’s physical challenges (I would not post this here, if she, weeks later when I explained the situation to her, did not see the humor and laugh). It was a bad date in so far as I placed myself in a very awkward situation and let my motor mouth go into automatic pilot.

Years ago, when I was still a poor graduate student, lacking money, time and taste for the finer things in life, I felt, with a little shuffling here and there, I could still manage to fit a little female companionship into my schedule. To expedite the process of finding a girlfriend and not disturb my otherwise busy agenda, I proceeded by way of a respectable “man seeks woman” personals ad campaign, pre-internet style.

After much deliberation, I decided to pursue one of the dozen or so responses I received—let’s call her, Lolly. On paper, we seemed to share a lot of interests, goals and similar senses of humor (always an important feature for me). We spoke on the phone a couple of times before I asked her out to dinner. She mentioned liking seafood, so I suggested Red Lobster (remember my lack of money and good taste in those days) as our fine eating establishment destination. “I don’t know about you, but I plan on chowing down on a juicy lobster tonight,” I quipped. I don’t recall hearing a response to that declaration, however.

I arrive at the front door of my blind date's house and ring the bell. Moments later, the door unlatches and begins to open…slowly, a little too slowly. She just wants to make sure I don’t look like an ax murderer before committing to a full open door, I suppose. As the door continues its swing inward, I see, for the first time, the face of my date for the first time as it tilts into the open. It’s…magnificent! A finely featured beauty to behold, certainly better than I expected, or probably deserved. But, what’s that expression I behold on that face that could launch a thousand ships? Disgust (damn, did I forget to zip up my fly)? No. Disappointment (maybe you’re not the God’s gift to women you thought you were, Tibbs)? No. It was, hmm, a look of nervous apprehension. Yes, that is most assuredly what it is—but, why?

"Tibby, before we go out, there’s something I need to tell you. And, if you wish not to go out afterward, I completely understand—I should have told you before now."

She used to be a man. She’s got leprosy. She’s a homicidal maniac. She’s a transsexual leper who compulsively kills her blind dates. Don’t let your imagination go wild, Tibbs, and for gosh sakes, don’t faint, that could be interpreted as a something less than a manly act. I force out, “sure, Lolly, I can’t imagine my not wanting to take you out, but please, tell me what’s on your mind.” The screen door opens and Lolly walks out onto the porch (except it’s more of an antalgic shuffle than a normal gait, I observe). She’s holding her hands behind her back. What’s she holding back there, a gift for me? A restraining order? A bloodied butcher knife?

“I have a congenital condition called ectrodactyly, which affects my hands and feet.” She slowly brings her hands from behind her back into my full view, then shrugs. “I’ve learned to live with it and I’m actually ok about it…but a lot of people I meet aren’t, and I understand that.” Before my eyes are a pair of clawed hands.

I’m typically a calm cool and collected type of guy. And being in the medical field, I don’t shock easily, particularly with regard to things of a biological nature. And, I actually wasn’t shocked by what I was seeing, not in the least. No I was shocked by something I inadvertently said to her earlier, ("…I plan on chowing down on a juicy lobster tonight”) …and, fear of the series of faux pas that would surely come from my mouth later in the evening due to my propensity for sliding down the slippery snowballing slope of saying just the wrong thing when I’m embarrassed. ("…I plan on chowing down on a juicy lobster tonight”).

Sometimes too much knowledge can get you into trouble, and this was one of those times. I knew all about ectrodactyly, it was one of the many rare congenital malformations recently covered in one of my courses. Some things get planted firmly in one’s mind, like the fact that ectrodactyly is commonly referred to as Lobster-Claw Syndrome. (“Let’s go to Red Lobster”…”I plan on chowing down on a juicy lobster tonight” crap!). It’s going to be a bumpy night.

I ordered flounder; Lolly ordered, yes, you guessed correctly, lobster (was she having some fun at my expense, or did she simply like shellfish?) This was back in the days when smoking was allowed in restaurants and Lolly was a smoker (a less than half-pack a day smoker, to her credit). She was remarkably adept at handling silverware (even the shell crackers, I later witnessed), but she needed my assistance in flicking her Bic to ignite her cigarette. As I did so, she reached and steadied my hand with her claws just as the waitress set down her plated lobster.

The waitress obviously didn’t notice Lolly’s deformity until just that moment, as I noticed her eyes widen to inhuman proportions. And, for some reason, this struck me as funny—something along the lines of, placing a lobster in front of what appeared to be a lobster lady who was snipping off her date's fingers as he tries to cook her over an open flame. I tried very hard to suppress the inappropriate laughter that was ascending quickly up my trachea, but I was, of course, profoundly unsuccessful. Yes, I’m quite sure all the customers turned to see what all this laughter was about, compounding the embarrassment factor logarithmically. I lied to Lolly and told her I was thinking about something funny that happened to me earlier in the day, but we both know she wasn’t buying it. She shrugged and simply gave an exasperated half-hearted Mona Lisa smile.

I don’t recall the exact conversation that followed that floodgate of embarrassment, as I tried to recover some semblance of dignity and non-jerkedness back into the evening, but I’m pretty sure my auto-piloted verbal diarrhea included the following inappropriate words and phrases: boiling mad, red faced, snip, snap, snip-snap, crabs, pinchers, chitin, shellfish, Maine, invertebrate, exoskeleton, molting, swimmerets, spermatophore, antennae…and more.

We got past that awkward first date and continued on for awhile as a couple (she forgave my initial nervousness and even my poor taste in restaurants). We had sex like a couple of randy crustaceans—although I was careful not to get that certain part of a male anatomy within her snipping distance.

Life intervened and we eventually drifted (no pun intended) apart. However, the memory that sticks most closely in my mind regarding that relationship, is our time together following a particularly romantic day at the beach, when we retired to the beach club for a dip in the hot tub. As the sun was setting and we relaxed in the steaming, bubbling water, I’ll never forget how attractive Lolly looked at that moment: skin slightly reddened from the sun and glistening from the coating of lemon scented tanning butter. She really looked good enough to eat.