Dear Diary: The Tycoon

Dear Diary: The Tycoon, the Weekend Brunch, and the Boundary Mishap

The Anticipation

After months of trawling through dating apps that resembled a singles bar after closing time, I finally snagged a date on "Elysian Encounters," the app that promised a glimpse into the Olympian world of dating. My match, whose profile picture could launch a thousand modeling careers, had an aura of mystery that practically begged to be unraveled. His bio hinted at a life of luxury yachts and caviar dreams, which, let's be honest, piqued my curiosity a little.

As always, I did it for the plot. So....

We decided on brunch at The Surf Club, my favorite spot by the beach. The anticipation crackled in the air – I envisioned the perfect first date: sparkling conversation, delectable food, and a backdrop straight out of a travel magazine.

When James, my date for this potentially epic (or epically disastrous) adventure, arrived, he didn't disappoint in the looks department. He was even more handsome than his photos, radiating an air of refinement that could curdle milk at ten paces. However, as we settled into our plush seats, a tiny voice in my head began to whisper doubts. James's personality seemed more suited for a cheesy cologne commercial than a heartfelt conversation. His voice had that practiced smoothness you hear in car dealership commercials, and every sentence ended with a slight upward inflection like he was asking a question even when he wasn't.

From the moment the menus arrived, James launched into a monologue about his extravagant lifestyle. He boasted about his "trust fund fueled" car collection (which suspiciously resembled a fleet of souped-up sports cars from a bad action movie) and his investment opportunities that sounded suspiciously like a pyramid scheme my grandma forwards in chain emails. I plastered on a polite smile, but inside, I felt like I was trapped in a gilded cage with Mr. Moneybags himself. He hadn't even bothered to ask about my favorite color or if I preferred my coffee strong or weak.

The waiter approached, his smile as bright as the California sun. James, with the air of a king surveying his domain, took it upon himself to order for both of us. "The lobster benedict for the lady, and make it extra decadent!" It was supposed to be charming, but it felt more like he was ordering a prize show poodle. I wasn't sure if I craved hollandaise sauce or a healthy dose of self-respect at that point. The food arrived, beautifully presented on pristine white plates, but the conversation remained as one-sided and insipid as a lukewarm cup of instant coffee.

The final straw arrived with the bill. With a flourish that would make a magician jealous, James whipped out his metal AMEX card and threw it at our waiter. My jaw didn't quite drop to the floor, but I think my eyebrows did a synchronized high-five. When my face failed to register the awe he clearly expected, James's demeanor shifted abruptly. The practiced smoothness vanished, replaced by a nervous stammer.

I blurted out " wtf was that about" with annoyance plastered on my face.

Apologies began pouring out of him faster than free samples at Costco. He suddenly became contrite, begging for another chance to prove himself. A part of me appreciated the effort to make amends – the Creed cologne he wore was undeniably pleasant, and there was a certain allure to his flamboyant lifestyle. But the superficiality of the entire encounter left a bad taste in my mouth.

Back at home, pouring myself a cup of actual good coffee (none of that burnt diner stuff for me, thank you very much), I reflected on the date. The jury was still out. Should I keep him on the hook just for the entertainment value (because, let's face it, the brunch was a spectacle)? Or should I roast him like yesterday's latte? Guess I'll just have to see what the next date brings... Wish me luck!

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