Bubble bath.

I went out with a guy this summer that I didn’t really like. We only went on two “dates” (I seriously hate that word) before I decided his mind was indeed as bad as his hair cut.

It didn’t take me two outings to figure this out. I went along with it at the time because he paid for all the drinks. Sad and mean spirited, yes, but at $7 a glass it made perfect sense to me.

I remember on the second. . . occasion. . . we were talking along the lines of how we deal with people/relationships and the like. Today while reading a book for my War and Aggression class, I remembered the analogy I used to describe to this guy how I go about dealing with the opposite sex.

It went something along the lines of:

“I’m the kind of person who deals with relationships like they deal with. . . a bath.”

“You soak them up?” (seriously that was about as witty as he got)

“Um, no. I mean like when you run a bath and it’s all super exciting at first and you just have to stick your foot in there and get in right away. But then you realize that the bath is not exciting, in fact it’s burning and overwhelming so you take your foot out as soon as you’ve put in there. You don’t give yourself time to acclimatize.”

At this point I’m looking at him for some reassurance that he at least partly understands what I’m saying. And in his Coor’s Light from a can (because Iqaluit doesn’t have glass bottles) induced haze he offers me this gem:

“Man, I don’t take baths, I shower.”

In the end I (my mind anyway) paid dearly for those few drinks.