The Worst First Date: An Elegy

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I know, I know. My Twitter has been silent, my snaps have been dormant, and I have been doing nothing for the content. In my defense, I’ve been working 12 hour days for a few months. You know what else I haven’t had time to do? Date. Until this week, I had been on approximately 0 dates in the last 6 months unless you count the ill-advised fling with a friend and coworker, which I don’t, because all we did was Netflix until we ran out of Better Call Saul episodes and had to hook up to avoid talking about anything of substance.

Now that summer is almost here and I was slowly emerging from my work-induced hermitage, I decided that I needed to stop going out with douchebags named Brad and consider maybe dating someone I actually liked. In pursuit of this goal, I began swiping furiously on Hinge and found a guy who seemed to have a lot of long term potential. He was cute, his profile was funny, and most importantly he was geographically desirable. We were from the same hometown and he lived less than a half mile from me in DC. AKA, marriage material.

He asked me out after a few messages- another encouraging sign. There’s honestly nothing worse than matching with a guy on an app, talking about nothing for days, and then never actually making plans to meet. He picked a time and place and I appreciated the planning. I was really excited to go out with a guy who I might actually consider dating for once!

The appointed day arrived, but when I finally made it home, I was really cutting it close on time. I abandoned any hope of curling my hair when the rain started, and should have taken the weather as an omen for how the rest of my night would go.

I was rushing to get ready, not wanting to ruin my prospects with this geographically desirable stranger by being late. I put on my cutest date dress, carefully coiffed my ponytail to protect against the ravages of rain, put on my favorite berry pink lipstick, and headed to our appointed meeting spot at a bar that was easily walkable from my house.

On the short walk there, I had all the usual pre-first date thoughts. “Will he like me? Will he think I’m pretty? Will he think I’m funny?” I fretted over my choice to put my hair in a ponytail as the rain slowly creeped up my legs towards my dress.

I got to the bar, shook out my umbrella, and took a deep breath before walking in. I had told him what I was wearing and he spotted me immediately, waving from the bar. Whew. He looked like his profile picture and was pretty cute! I mentally started planning our joint trips home for holidays.

I approached and we hugged as I gave him my most dazzling smile. He gestured for me to sit in the chair he’d saved for me and leaned in flirtatiously.

“So, I have to be honest… I went to a work happy hour before this,” he winked at me.

I wasn’t expecting it, but I wasn’t too upset. We’ve all had a couple drinks before a first date, right? I told him as much.

“Ahhhhhh that’s so cool, thank you thank you, you’re so cool! You’re a cool girl. And you’re cute!” He smiled, holding out his fist for me to fist bump.

I hesitated, wondering how drunk he really was, but obliged.

We talked for about 30 minutes about all the things we had in common when I started to notice he was repeating questions I had already answered. I was ready to check out when he shifted to a new topic of conversation.

“So do you smoke weed? Because I do. Like a lot. Like, it’s maybe my favorite thing. I do it a lot. I may have done a little before I came here,” he giggled.

At that point, I was just pissed. No judgement for anyone who smokes, but it’s not my thing and I’m not really interested in being with someone who does it regularly, let alone thinks it’s a good idea before a first date. My answers became very terse and short as I planned my escape.

“You’re just… like wow. You’re so hot and smart and I really like you and want to make you a steak,” he swooped in without warning and planted a sloppy beer kiss on me. I was startled to say the least. And I was fucking done. I was recovering my wits and was about to tell him off when he stopped, cupped my face, and nodded. I just stared at him, wondering if I was going to have to fend off another kiss.

He nodded again, fist bumped me, picked up his backpack, and walked out of the bar. Without paying the bill.

I was stunned. I just sat there for a minute or so processing what had just happened. On one hand I was glad to be rid of him but also WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK. I of course began furiously texting all of my group chats.

As I composed a paragraph long rant for my group chat, I got a text from my runaway date. I stared at my phone in disbelief, opening the message, wondering if it would be some sort of explanation or apology. That would be the only acceptable text in this situation, right? No normal person would just leave with no explanation and text anything other than an apology?

He texted me his address. No other message. Just his address.

At this point, I had begun to appreciate the comically absurd nature of my situation and turned to the girl sitting next to me at the bar because I just had to tell someone this story in person, when I saw him suddenly appear behind her. I blinked slowly, not quite believing what I saw.

“Ummmmmm… I thought you left?” I mean what else can you even say in that situation?

“Yeah yeah yeah I went outside and called my mom and she said I should come back in,” he smiled, taking my hand. “You’re just like so amazing and cool. Can I cook you a steak?”

I firmly pulled my hand away and was done being polite.

“Listen, I enjoyed talking to you, but this isn’t going to work out. I’m getting the bill. We’ll split it- where’s your card?”

He frowned and tried to take my hand again.

“But like can we hang out again? Maybe even just as friends?”

“I don’t think so,” I used my best assertive tone.

“Oh ok. I get it. Ok. Ugh I know I’m so hammered,” he looked drunkenly apologetic.

The bartender had noticed my predicament and was mercifully swift bringing the bill. My date stared at his check and squinted one eye.

“Can you sign for me? I just like can’t right now,” he pushed his check towards me.

At this point, I was fuming and laughing in alternating fits, but I signed the check and put his card in his shirt pocket.

“Ok, I’m going to leave. Bye,” I gathered my stuff and stormed directly to the pizza place next to my house.

Upon getting home, I proceeded to house the entire pizza and get rip roaringly drunk on boxed wine. I woke up at 3 a.m., covered in dogs, with all the lights on and my contacts still in, Netflix judging me by asking if I wanted to continue watching. I looked at my phone and had a text from my hammered date at 10:09 p.m.

“Oops.”

I scoffed in disbelief and moved my already hungover ass to bed.

I’m sure you would all agree that if the story stopped here, this would already qualify as one of the worst dates of all time. There’s something to be said for quitting while you’re ahead, but I think it’s even more important to quit when you’re behind. Clearly, this is not a concept my date was familiar with.

I woke up to gentle sunlight in the sweet caress of a vicious wine hangover and a dog paw in my face. I peeled my eyes open one by one and immediately reached for my water bottle and my phone simultaneously. I scrolled through my notifications in disbelief and saw a text from my date.

I feel like just recounting the text will not quite do it justice, so for your viewing pleasure, here it is in all its glory.

My dearest hope is that one day the good lord blesses me with the confidence of a profoundly mediocre white man. I mean, just stop and think about the balls necessary to send this text after showing up to a first date drunk AND high, leaving the date with no preface or explanation, and sending a text with JUST your address. Maybe he reads PGP and knows that shooters shoot?

Spoiler alert: I did not take him up on the offer.

Gentlemen, this is the bar you’re trying to reach. I know, it’s lofty, but I have faith in you. You can do this. Aim high. Be the best you can be. Alternatively, if that sounds too difficult, just be better than this ass clown.

Still in search of a badass steak unaccompanied by a drug-fueled disappearance. .

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Quinn Truflais

Formerly known as Queen of The Garbage People. Functional title still stands. Dog owner, whiskey drinker, Star Wars fangirl. #DoingItForTheContent QuinnTruflais@gmail.com

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