I don't blame Korea anymore

I don't get nervous about dates anymore. I've been on too many to think of them - most of them - as anything but the last five minutes of that cheezy, over-theatrical sitcom ("Reba" springs immediately to mind) you accidentally turn on early and decide to watch until the show you really want to see comes on; not what you wanted, but it's the necessary lead up that will remind you why you like your real show so much. Besides, there's nothing else to do while you wait.

Even though I don't get nervous, do like to make a good impression and so I spruce up a bit. My normally floppy hair that is exactly the same style as it was immediately preceding that fateful day in the early 80s when I discovered feathering and mousse - luckily that's in style these days - is made to swoop, spike, glisten, and arc gracefully. The clothes I choose are picked specifically for their ability to mask my expanding waistline. Shaving, usually only a thrice-weekly event for me, occurs immediately prior to walking out the door so as to be as smooth as possible. Extra attention is paid to the quality of my breath.

I wish I could say the same for the guy I went on a date with a couple of days ago.

"Hello," he said, turning to me when I met up him in the video store.

"Aaaaaah!" I screamed inside my head, taking a step back as I was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of rancid fumes that reminded me of that time when I was hiking and I accidentally stumbled onto a dump.

I'd noticed it the first time we'd meet but at that time I'd attributed it to the spicy Korean food we'd had the appeared to have been immersed in chilli oil for several months before being served. A couple of those weird breath strips did the trick and our end-of-date, pre-carnal physical relations were quite delightful.

It was clear to me this time, however, that Korea was not the culprit. It was simply that the boy produces his own chemical weapons, perhaps as a natural shield against guys who want him for his, it must be admitted, luscious body.

He suggested a few movies I had little interest in seeing ("War of the Worlds", "Fantastic Four") and I agreed limply, so great was my desire to be out in fresh air. I chose food from a Lebanese restaurant I know has very garlicky tehini so I would have the excuse to pull out the breath strips. However, after a couple of hours of perching on the edge of the couch surrounded by the eternal fumes of Hell, I lost all my energy and made my excuses (man, was I tired/had to get up early the next morning/forgot to feed the cat).

It's not as if he were unhygienic and unkempt. He is neat, his apartment is clean, and the toothpaste tube in his bathroom has those smooth indentations that indicate regular squooshing. And he's kind, sweet, smart, interested in the world, and cute to boot. It's just that he has a rotting corpse lodged in the back of his throat.

It would only take one uncomfortable conversation to clear this up - so to speak - with him. I'm not so superficial that I'd dump a guy I like because of something as silly as a little bad breath.

Or am I? I haven't heard from him since then and the fact that he may not have liked me all that much the second time around comes as a bit of a relief. I feel no rushing urge to get in contact with ol' zombie mouth either. Perhaps this was just the last few minutes of a show that had potential the first time, but the second time was, well, not so hot.

Besides, yesterday I met this really cute guy - taller than me (which is rare), very cute, soft-spoken and a little shy. We made plans to meet for a movie next week. I wonder what will turn out to be wrong with him?