Oh my god, I've been dating a birther.

I've been seeing Tony for nearly three months now. Tony is perfect on paper -- a tall, handsome, intelligent, gainfully-employed dog lover -- but from the moment I met him, there's been something about Tony that bothers me. Problem is, I've not been able to put my finger on it -- and so, as often as my gut would tell me "cut this one loose," failing any concrete revelations of an even remotely disturbing nature, I have continued to see him. After all, he treats me well, he uses proper grammar, he calls when he’s supposed to and he has washboard abs with the face of a Ken doll.

I’d been hoping that this “feeling” was completely unfounded – nothing more than a cog in a series of emotional defense mechanisms that had been spinning furiously since the break up of my marriage. …And I know very well that if I’m ever to have a healthy relationship with a deserving man, I cannot project onto him the faults of previous suitors. Therefore, I had tentatively decided that I would have to be presented with tangible evidence of Tony’s fatal flaw(s) in order to send him on his way. A “feeling,” alone, would not serve as sufficient evidence.

Finally, after 90+ days of doing exactly what I’d vowed during divorce proceedings to stop doing (ignoring my gut instinct), my gut screamed “I toldya so” only seconds after being socked.

It happened last night. We were cracking crab legs and knocking back a couple of Coronas at a hip little seafood joint. Just moments earlier, he’d commented on how pretty my hair looked. 

“Awww” – right, ladies? 

Now, perhaps I need a little time to mentally dissect the night and the conversation that followed, in particular, because I cannot for the life of me recall how we got from my new highlights to a heated political dispute in under two minutes flat, but whatever the route – we got there. I vaguely remember saying something to the effect of, “Go ahead and be honest – I can respect your opinion even if I disagree with it.” Then I heard those four words flow frighteningly freely out of his mouth: 

A photo of THE "elusive" birth certificate.

“Obama is from Kenya.” 

I waited a beat—internally begging for a laugh or a smile or some other expression that would indicate he was kidding. But he just sat there. And so did I.

As the realization of what was happening began to sink in, I silently confronted the fact that this would be our final date while contemplating whether to let the night play out amicably, demand this closet conservative take me home now, or excuse myself to “the bathroom” and go hail a cab. I went with option number one, though regretted the decision the whole way through the five-minute diatribe that followed his admission, during which he denied the existence of our president's birth certificate and spouted off a string of right wing talking points that are typically shouted at local television cameras by dimwits carrying signs like "Hey government, keep your hands off my medicare" and "Say no to the pubic option!" Finally, I just asked him to stop talking.

“An opinion is one thing, the truth is another,” I told him. “You are entitled to your own beliefs, but you aren’t entitled to your own facts.” 

I continued, “What’s next? Are you now going to tell me that you don’t believe in evolution?”

“Wellll…,” he started. And then I just pressed my index finger to his lips, smiled sweetly, and said simply: “Shhh.”

The rest of the night was inconsequential. I was saved by the NBA dunk contest being broadcast on the television above us. We talked sports for the next hour and then he took me home.

And so ends the truncated tale of Tony.

***  

Just for kicks and giggles, I've decided to include this helpful link -- full of lots of colorful pictures of Obama's birth certificate -- should Tony ever stumble upon this site and feel the need to be enlightened.
Click here: Factcheck.org's ruling on existence & validity of birth certificate