Fantasy vs. Reality: There’s A Big Difference

I’m going to talk about the big “F” word.

Everyone does it. You likely did it several times today… on the train, in your car, in the grocery store. You’re probably doing it right now.

Fantasies allow us to create stories in our heads of a life and persona we may want to be, providing us with a separation from our daily grudge or with inspiration. In some cases, our fantasies can reveal who we really are outside of the social armors we wear, if we chose to examine them.

I’m a vivid daydreamer. I have an imagination that could probably power a small engine, which is helpful for a writer.

That scene in The Notebook, I’ve done better. 50 Shades of Grey? Child’s play.

When it comes to fantasy vs. reality in dating, however, some fantasies are best left behind closed doors. Like this one…

Shaken, Not Stirred

Perhaps I’ve read too many books or want to be the female version of James Bond, but since my late 20’s, I’ve always had the fantasy of buying a man a drink at a bar. In some scenarios, I buy him a drink and have the bartender deliver it with my number, leaving before he has a chance to see me. In scenes I’d likely never play out, it’s a hotel key.

In another scene, I send over a drink and stay and wait to see what happens. In the fantasy, the gentleman is intrigued by this gesture, searches the bar for a beautiful woman, (of course me, because we are all beautiful in our fantasies). I lock eyes, he comes over …. “Pinot Grigio?” he asks, gesturing towards my glass. “No,” I say, “It’s actually a 50/50 blend of non-alcoholic chardonnay grape juice and sparkling water.” (You have to be Facebook friends with me to understand that joke.) “Charming,” he says. “Likewise,” I wink. And then we wake up the next morning in a sunlit loft, our naked bodies draped in a green curtain like a modern-day Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara love affair.

You know, something like that.

Lesson #1: Unless you know what you’re doing. Keep your fantasy to yourself.

Here’s how it actually went down.

First off, I was in Wrigleyville, which, if anyone outside of Chicago is reading, being in Wrigleyville in your thirties feels a little something like this:

So my instincts should have kicked in. Warning: 25-year-old douche bag ahead! Do. Not. Proceed.

From across the bar, the item of interest seemed about 6’1”, most likely a former soccer player, broad shoulders, nice chest, blue eyes if I had to guess, probably a moderately deep voice, shy yet charming, strong yet gentle… everything and anything that Saturday nights and Sunday mornings are made of.

I told my friend of my unplayed fantasy. We decided it was time to execute.

“Don’t turn around,” I instructed the bartender. “But there’s a man behind you sitting at the bar with a friend — tall, shaved head, drinking a beer. I want you to send him a drink, on my tab, but don’t tell him who it came from, just tell him a girl at the bar sent it.”

Now, my second hint should have been when the bartender, just shy of late 20’s, cocked his head back and said, “Really!?” not in a I-don’t-like-the-idea kind of way, but in a Are-you-sure-about-that-guy? kind of way.

Lesson #2: Your bartender is your best dating coach.

I was adamant. Once I commit to an idea, I don’t turn around. Shortly thereafter, the bartender approached my new fantasy with a drink, leaned in to whisper something, walked around to where my girlfriend and I were sitting and gave me a wink.

Game on.

“Play it cool, dude,” I told my friend, one eye on my sexy soccer player as he searched the bar for this mysterious girl. After a few minutes, he figured me out and I made eye contact. He said a few words to his buddy and they got out of their seats, grabbed their jackets and proceeded to walk over.

Do you prefer almond oil or coconut oil, sir? I imagined myself saying over his shirtless body as he made his way to our side.

But, just like that moment when you realize sex on the beach isn’t the stuff Chris Isaak music videos are made of

…the fantasy is gone when your sexy soccer player leans in and mumbles something incoherent in some odd European accent and you look down to realize he is sporting a pair of Timberland’s and baggy jeans.

My clitoris retracted.

“You ordered me a drink?” he finally articulated after consecutive, “Huh’s” and “What’s” from me.

“I did,” I said, my fantasy mind trying to process the details from my reality mind, wondering why Chris Martin had not yet manifested.

After another awkward minute of trying to get his name, he then proceeded to take a seat next to me where I would learn that he was fresh to the states Serbian, 24-years-old and didn’t really have a job or a place to stay, both of which he seemed oddly proud of. He was also quite goofy, not in a sexy way, but in a way that screamed, I’m probably going to go get high after this… because I’m 24.

“We do shots!” he exclaimed, ordering a round and edging in closer. My clitoris punched me in the ovaries. “Good try there, sister! Now what are you gonna do?”

I looked at my friend, giving her the “we need to escape look,” she understood, making sure to flash the engagement ring on her finger to the other hovering suitor who looked like he had just flown in from the suburbs judging by his attire: slacks, button up shirt, leather jacket, gold chain.

“We don’t really do shots,” I hawed. “And actually, um, my friend needs to get going, early morning for her, so we might need to head out.”

He shrugged and smiled, “I come with you, then, we have fun.”

And then, THEN, like a reptile, he air-licked my face.

HE AIR LICKED MY FACE!

“No, no,” I reassured. “We don’t have fun. We go,” I said, adapting his lack of finesse of the English language, the visual of his tongue darting at me still fresh in my mind.

I caught the bartender as he walked by, an evil smirk on his face. Funny dude, real funny.

Lesson #3: The fantasy is usually better than the reality.

Have you played out any fantasies that went terribly wrong? Tell us below…