When will I learn? When?!?!?!?

So, I’m at the bar last weekend when “HE” walks in.

Him.

The Briton.

He’s sporting a multicolored polo shirt, khaki shorts and a pair of expensive sunglasses. He’s tall. He has product in his perfectly coiffed, dark brown hair. He’s foreign. He has an accent. He has a face that lights up when he smiles.

Trouble.

I don’t know him. I’ve never met him before but, I feel like I’ve dated him a million times already. Same “type” of guy, different package. He looks over at me and starts to walk in my direction. How and why does this keep happening?

I once dated a guy from Spain who explained it best. He was a total pothead. And, although he’d been offered them many times, he never tried hard drugs. I asked him how he managed to find hard drugs. (I’m American and I don’t know how to find hard drugs here; I sure as hell wouldn’t know where to find them in Spain.) His reply was something that I’ll always remember:

“Drug users know where to find drug dealers and vice versa. We find each other.”

At this point, the Spaniard paused and looked at me. “It’s like us. How did we find each other?”

“I’m not a drug dealer,” I say flatly.

He smiles. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, how did you know that I was interested in you and how did I know that you were interested in me when we first met?”

“I don’t know. It just … “

“It just,” he spreads his fingers and waves them in the air, “it just happened.” He smiles again. (He always had a great smile.)

“It just happened,” I repeat. Then I smile.

“Exactly,” he says. “People who want to find each other, find each other.” He thinks for a moment. “… Maybe it’s in the smell.”

Fast forward to the present. I’m still in the bar. The British guy is walking toward me.

I smell trouble.

“Hi, I’m Alastair,” he says.

Wow, Alastair has a great voice doesn’t he, I think. “I’m (the Funky Brown Chick).”

We chit chit with an American guy who is in the general vicinity. The American goes to grab a beer. A few minutes later, Alastair buys me a round.

Several hours and rounds later, somehow, Alastair and I are alone and we’re whispering into each others ears.

“I know you,” I say. “I’ve dated a million guys like you.”

“What?”

“I know you.” This is the beer talking now … “you’re an intelligent man, but you’re cocky about this. You think you’re smarter than most, if not all, of the people that you know. Your friends have told you that they think you’re arrogant. You come from a good family. Your father has a nice career and he’s done very well for himself …”

Alastair interrupts, “… well, but not great …”

“Exactly. Your mother … she took care of the kids. She definitely has a career, but it’s a humble one …”

“… if you call nursing humble …”

“You like women … A lot. You’re a playboy of sorts and you’ve used your looks and or your money to get your way. You work in corporate …”

“Goldman Sachs.”

” … and you’ve done well for yourself. You’re proud of that … “

“See my friend there,” he points across the room. “He probably makes seven figures. Seven figures. I’m doing well, but not that well.”

“Anyway, you’re doing well. Better than your family back home is …” I continue talking for a while, but then I stop when I suddenly notice that he’s grown quiet. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Are you a psychologist?!?” He looks slightly bewildered. “How do you know all of that stuff about me?!?!”

“I told you, I’ve dated you already. You even work at the same company as my ex.”