About seven months have gone by since I detailed a few of the strangest dates I’ve ever had, and while there has only been one new date since that time, it became an instant classic worthy of contending for my worst date of all time.

This happened a few months ago, but I was reminded of it the other day while listening to a rerun episode of “This American Life.”  The first act, which runs about 8 minutes, talks about things that other people point out about ourselves that we have a hard time shaking.

I’ll let host Nancy Updike pick up around the 3-minute mark:

“These are not statements that a human being forgets. The moment you hear the observation it becomes part of how you see yourself, seemingly forever. Even something tiny, if it hits you right, can turn into this chirpy little voicemail that your brain is never able to erase.  And it doesn’t have to be about looks; it can be a comment on how you run or laugh or drive, how much money you make, what books you’ve read or haven’t read, any outside assessment of you that you never saw coming and couldn’t shake once it was uttered.”

Which brings us back to my date in May.  It was our first time meeting in person after messaging back and forth for a few days.  Her reaction was like many people I meet comment immediately about my height, but while most people are like, “Hey you’re tall!” her wording was, “Do you ever get self-conscious about being so tall?”

Well, um, not usually.  After we sat down and ordered drinks she went back to the tall well, looking oddly at my hands and then asking if, because I was so [freakishly] tall, they were abnormally big.  I don’t think so?

Our charming conversation continued with more normal first-date questions like where we were from, college and what we’re doing at work.  Then she asked when my last relationship was, and I gave an answer that I didn’t think was the worst in the world but drew a swift, “Well that’s not a red flag or anything…”

So menacing

Cool.  We wrapped up dinner and took a stroll at the town center across the street.  It was a little chilly, and when my hands got cold I casually put them in my pockets for warmth.  That seemed like a pretty normal move to me since just about every human in the same situation has done the same, but silly me.

“Really?  Pockets?  You look like a serial killer right now.”

Oh.  I can report that in the two months since then I have thought about that comment 100 percent of the time when putting my hands in my pockets, which I now notice happens all the time.

But don’t worry, I have a solution for this massive problem.  On my next date, I’ll just show up rocking these:

That won’t be a red flag or anything.