Because I’m so happily married, and because I just read my friend Alias’s blog about bad dates, (No, I can’t link you, cause that shit’s private.) I’ve become inspired to tell you about my worst date.
It is really not that bad, and I hope you’ll share your bad dates in the comments, because I need to be entertained like that.
This guy I worked with took lunch at the same time I did, and after several mutual lunches, he asked me out. He was cute. I like ’em tall and blonde and he was tall and blonde. I think musicians make the best lovers, and well, hello, band teacher!
He came to pick me up, lookin and smellin all good, not dressed at all like a band teacher. How nice. I don’t know why this surprised me, as I certainly didn’t dress as a school marm for our date, but I was pleasantly surprised.
He asked to use the phone. I left him in the kitchen with the phone, wherein he loudly announced the cover charge of the club to which he would take me. Twice.
Yes, I did have a Three Strikes You’re Out Rule.
I was never good at dating, and I often felt it was a waste of my time. I preferred gentleman callers just came and did the sex and then generally left me the hell alone. I told you I was a slut in recovery.
While driving to dinner, I could not help but be irritated by his slow speed. I do not mean careful, cautious driving. No. I mean blue-haired lady, out for a Sunday drive in her enormous Cadillac driving.
Dinner was fine. He took me to a well-known steak house. I didn’t eat “meat” at the time. I ordered the salmon & shrimp, which was perfectly yummy, but I could tell he found it less than charming. Since he had gone on about the cost of the cover charge, I made sure to order something less costly than his entree, because I am nothing if not perceptive. Conversation was polite, but I must say, I found his sense of humor lacking, both with our waiter and with me.
We then went to a jazz club around the corner, where, I swear to you, he actually said the cover charge out loud again while he paid the man at the door.
Inside the jazz club, he sat, toe-tapping on the edge of his seat. The other couple at our table made conversation between songs, and tried to include us. My date did not enjoy their attempts at small talk, and refused the stranger man’s offer to buy us drinks. Between sets, he looked completely agitated while looking everywhere but at the people at our table, including me. It was as though he needed to escape.
Now, I am an introvert. I really am. I do not enjoy chatting to strangers for long periods of time. But I have better manners than to be curt with people I’m going to spend several hours with. As an introvert, I was completely offended by having to “carry the conversation” on our end.
I began to wonder if he was a racist, as well.
He drove me home. We sat in silence for the forty minutes it took to make the twenty-minute journey.
Then, he walked me to the door, grabbed me, stuck his tongue down my throat, groped my breast, smiled, thanked me for a great evening, got in his car, and drove away.
Do I even need to say Strike Three?
I stood there, I’m sure, looking as befuddled and awed as I felt.
The following Monday he asked me out again. I declined politely. He stopped taking his lunch in the same slot I took mine.