Blonde-Zac-Efron-in-a-suit introduced himself as Paul, and we began walking up from the depths of the 59th St subway station together while making small talk. Emerging onto the noisy, trash-riddled street (ah, New York romance!), Paul propositioned me: "At the risk of making a fool of myself, if you don't have plans, would you be interested in grabbing a bite?"
"You mean, like, right now?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
Why not? Paul had a point. Paul was also 6'4" and attractive. And I hadn't been on a date in forever -- the talent on OkCupid left a lot to be desired. We settled on sushi and wine, and so began my date with a guy I'd just met on the subway.
Not all spontaneous dates equal rom-com moments
It was pretty soon after the first course of seaweed salad and sauvignon blanc that I realized Paul was THE WORST. In the 40 or so minutes we spent together, he managed to brag about his almost-Ivy League education, dismiss my taste in music, give lip to the waitress, and showcase horrific table manners (who over the age of 7 rocks his chair back and forth into the wall?) I ate as quickly as I could and did my best to discuss something, anything, that wouldn't be divisive.