Disastrous Double-Header, Part Two

Today's professionals move around the world for work, leaving behind the comforts of yesterday, such as meeting people organically. Today, it really does take conventions like Meetup.com to find friends in each new city, and to ensure that weekends don't become more punishing than work weeks.

After my abysmal date with Rex, I headed home to watch Insurgent, because I hadn't learned my lesson from the previous movie, Divergent. I have this horrible hope addiction; I'm always hoping things will be better the second time, even when the stats, odds, and common sense are against it.

In the spirit of second attempts, I agreed to go on a spontaneous date with Saul, a man I'd only been emailing for half a day. Although Saul lived an hour from Vegas, I rationalized that it'd be better to date a great guy an hour away than to settle for someone boring who lives five minutes away (actually, I think this might have been one of those horrible Facebook memes people kept sharing all week). It turned out that Saul was in Vegas to go to REI, so the timing was right.

Saul (#2) seemed intelligent and successful. His emails were so well written that I started re-reading my own to ensure that I was keeping up. I loved that he jumped straight to a date, sparing us both the weeks of emailing that inevitably amount to nothing.

Saul's vitals were a bit of a mystery still:

• Claimed Age: 39
• No Kids
• Traveling Consultant
• Claimed Height: 6'1

We agreed to meet at Three Angry Wives' Pub at 6:00, but Saul text me at 5:40 stating that he was in the booth by the door "waiting." I hurried to the pub, and felt a bit chastised when he checked his watch and pursed his lips as I arrived at 5:55. We awkwardly hugged, and then I sat down.

"So, why are you named Dylan?" he said with disdain and a deadpan stare. I explained the following reasons:

1. My mom liked Bob Dylan's song, "Girl from North Country"
2. My mom also has a dude's name, and thinks it's super cute
3. We're Frenchified (not in the venereal way), and in France they have the Fabienne/Fabien thing, so my mom thought an American Dylan/Dylan thing would work

Three explanations in, he was still staring, expressionless. I changed the subject and asked about the photographic hike that he'd mentioned via email. Saul went on a fifteen-minute rant about what serious hikers do, and how laughable people are when they claim to like hiking on the dating site, but have never lugged a 60-pound hiker's pack on an overnight run. I smiled weakly and planned to leave as soon as our drinks were gone. Then Saul asked, "What kind of hiker are you?" just as the waitress, finally, appeared. Much to my chagrin, Saul ordered a two-course meal: having already eaten and having only agreed to one drink, I declined to order.

We both sat in the booth quietly for a moment, and then Saul continued his hiking rant. He told me about trails in Pahrump I hope to never visit, and wild horses I never want to see. His passion for hiking seemed like the kind of thing that would be a defining requirement for his significant other. Suddenly, Saul circled back and asked about my interest in hiking, again. "I like short, easy hikes. Actually, in the 110-degree Vegas heat I prefer to hike in the gym on the treadmill." He didn't think that was funny.

He picked at his food slowly as he continued talking about hiking, until he suddenly thought of something. His tone and demeanor changed as he mentioned, "The next time I see a person carving his initials into a tree, I'm going to carve my initials into his flesh." He took a bite of salad and stared at me without blinking. Oh, shit. Thinking back, none of his six dating profile pictures displayed a smile; they all had this intense gaze.

As I looked for the waitress, he continued to talk about hiking, and the qualifications required to be a "real hiker." It took the waitress about fifteen minutes to get our check and for him to sign. I tried to pay for my beer, but he declined. At that moment, I got a text from a friend about an event we would attend the next night. "Saul, it was nice to meet you," I said as I slid off the booth, "but I have to go! This is urgent!"

Here are Saul's finishing vitals:

• Actual Age: 39
• No Kids
• Traveling Murderer?
• Actual Height: 6'1

I drove around Summerlin for half an hour thinking, or because I wanted to make sure he wasn't following me, and then I went home. Sequels, as we all know, are utter shit. My friend's mom's leftover lumpia and a cold Diet Coke would be a better choice any night than a date with Saul. Ending my Saturday on a real slump, I realized I hadn't returned Insurgent to Red Box and would be condoning that crap-fest with another night's rental fee. Times like these make a lady wonder if the ex-boyfriend was really that bad.