April 3, 2004. Morning. Destination: unknown.
As a rule, I think it’s a bad plan to go on a second date with someone that includes a “surprise” necessitating a long car trip. As such, I’m not sure why agreed to go on this date in the first place, though I say that not out of an inherent fear for my own safety, but because of the fact that I guessed any “surprise” Mary Magdalene had cooked up for me was going to be drippy and uncomfortable.
Surprise, surprise, we are going to Magic Mountain! That fabled land of roller coasters, pre-teens and knife fights. Ahh, a return to my youth he had in store, what a treat! Except–I don’t really like roller coasters–oh, and by the way, I’M THIRTY YEARS OLD. The last time I enjoyed Magic Mountain was when I went with my class in middle school and spent the day eating maple sugar candy and flirting with boys. On second thought, that doesn’t sound so bad.
Poor Mary Magdalene, how were you to know that there would be long lines, and we would only get to go on two rides? Or that, though the long time spent in line afforded us plenty of time to get to know each other, it also afforded me plenty of time to begin to think of you as a brother and not a suitor? Alas, it is not in the cards for Mary Magdalene, though I cannot exactly explain why–I only hope that he will poof on his own because I do not want to break his heart.
Epilogue: After this date, I did have to have the “I don’t think we are a match” conversation with Mary Magdalene. He took it well, and we parted ways amicably. Several months later, I received a voicemail from a drunk Mary Magdalene requesting my company for “a drink.” I never returned the call.