[dropcap]At[/dropcap] this point, it was about 8pm. I had spent the first half hour waiting for him and the second half deflecting inappropriate comments and trying not to be horribly disappointed with the mess of a man that plenty of fish had served up to me. Not to mention thinking this has to be as bad as it gets, right? RIGHT?!?! Wrong.
The waitress came over to see if we wanted to get something to eat. I didn’t really but he wanted to share something little Yam fries? Sure. So he ordered some yam fries to share and another beer. The waitress brought the beer, and since he was only half done his other pint, the logical thing to do on a first date would be to chug it, no. So he did. Then the fries came. I ate about 10. They were good, certainly. But honestly I hadn’t been that hungry and since every time he said something creepy or awkward or uncomfortable I would sip down some diet coke, you can imagine I was getting damn full on that. Plus, to be totally honest. Watching a guy who is completely oblivious to the world in general and to social protocol specifically, eat yam fries dipped heavily in mayo after pounding back a few beers has got to be one of the grossest things ever. Not to mention his conversation never lagged so I wouldn’t be surprised if at some point I had yam bits spattered across my face and arms. Ugh. KABOOM!
And then…came the dating experience chatter. The moment that occurs more often than not on dates that sprung from dating websites. They say you shouldn’t talk your past on first dates, but I think your past says a lot about you as a person. And, in my date’s case, it said way way too much. First he told me about some dates in the recent past. Only 12 or so since January. I assume, of course, these were all first dates. He tells me about the chick who freaked out on him because of the fact that he was a smoker. Obviously she is my idol. And then there were a lot of dates that had the same three factors: wine, him getting laid, ceasing contact. It’s like these ladies had never heard of masturbation or standards because honestly there wouldn’t be enough beer in the world for me to have sex with my date. boom. And then he mentioned his upcoming date with another lady two days later. boom. And then finally he mentioned “we’re clearly not getting married” boom. He meant it as if to say that he and I could have some real fun together before I potentially went away to school but even so. dude. smh. worst. KABOOM!
Now something I haven’t mentioned thus far but spanned the entire duration of our date was The Mess’s overall demeanor. To be honest, it’s a bit hard to describe. The best way I can think of is by comparison, which allows me to tell you that he basically acted like a tweaker. There was a lot of movement in every gesture. The topics were scattered and uncomfortable. And more than once was there an invasion of my personal space. What can I say, I’m not really into guys who hold up their finger to your face (repeatedly) because they want you to stop speaking so they can chime in. Charming. And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. You see, well he was getting shitfaced, I was stone cold sober (and perhaps even more alert than normal given my chugging of diet coke to avoid awkward moments). And that’s when he hit me with it. Blah blah blah stupid story blah blah blah I’m 41 blah blah blah HOLD UP! What’s that? 41? That’s not what your profile says. KABOOM! KABOOM! KABOOM!
You see, his profile said he was 38. The irony is that I wouldn’t have cared. 41 or 38 – there isn’t really that big of a difference. But someone who lies on their dating profile?!?! Someone who lies repeatedly on their dating profile?!?! That’s not going to fly with me. And since I knew there was no way this date was EVER going anywhere not in a million freaking years and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stand up, tell him this wasn’t going to work and flee the scene I felt it was my duty to women everywhere to educate this douchebag on just why exactly it was so awful to lie on a dating profile.
His logic, by the way, was that if a person really liked him it wouldn’t matter what age he was and fyi isn’t that the same logic of sexual predators and pedophiles alike? And so I explained to him that the problem isn’t the age, it’s the lying. I went on to explain that by lying on his dating profile, he had taken the decision away from me as to whether or not I would want to meet the real him. This was dating fraud of the first degree. To be honest, he couldn’t or didn’t want to understand. He just keep jamming mayo covered yam fries in his mouth and saying that at least he wasn’t trying to hide it now. Yeah, thanks, jerkoff. Now is too late, I’ve already wasted good hair and makeup on you.
But the truth is. All this. All these lengthy lengthy paragraphs detailing the endless torture that was my date with The Mess pale in comparison to the piece de resistance. At some point I went to the washroom and when I returned to my bar stool, I had just about had it with this date. I had held off as long as I could, and since I couldn’t bring myself to white lie about having to get up early or having to pack or having to hold the hand of a dying relative…I knew that my parking would be my out. You see, I’d paid for 2 hours. And I wasn’t going to get a ticket on account of this dick. So at about 8:50 we got the bill. Which the waitress had surprisingly split up. Now I don’t know about you guys but I have never NEVER had a waitress split a bill when out with a fella without asking first. Which leads me to believe that during my trip to the ladies my Prince Charming, this true Mess of a man, asked for our bill to be split. That’s right, even after torturing me for two hours and gorging himself on the fries…I had to pay for my own diet coke and “half basket of fries” KABOOM!!!!!!!!!
I. Was. Livid.
The irony, I don’t think he did it to be a dick. I think he just is a clueless one, by pure accident. Because after we had paid, and I was ready to high tail it out of there, he asked if he could walk me to my car. Was this dude for real!?!?! Get bent homie! Sure. And then I practically jogged to my car. Upon which he exclaimed how can you afford that *insert weak complaints about his shitty 20 year old truck*. Yeah, because nothing makes a girl hotter than exclaiming about your poverty when you’re a grown up with a government job who supposedly only has his thesis to finish to complete his MSc at SFU. So I just told him I’m independently wealthy. Get. Real. Son. Kaboom!!
He mentioned a lovely coffee shop up the street and I could tell, sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, was going to be an invite to join him. And while I haven’t perfected my break-away-during-the-date-dash, I damn sure have my already-getting-in-my-car-adios-kid stride on lock. I hit him with a quick, well it was nice meeting you and pretty much ran around the car to the front door, jumped in, slammed the door, hit the gas, and drove to chronic tacos…a reward for the torture I’d just endured. Scarred for life. By a Mess in a lavender leather jacket.
Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time
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