My Date From Hell

Dating Sucks!

When did men decide that being dismissive and rude was endearing? These days, dating can seem as antiquated as a pay phone but we still have to do it and I’ve been noticing an intense devolution of the men out there.

Case in point: Brian, Date from Hell, March 26^th, 2008.

Brian’s name has not been changed to protect his “innocence”. Hopefully he reads this and learns a valuable lesson about how not to be a tool. His last name isn’t withheld either, I never took the time to find out what it was.

Here’s the brief back story.

Brian and I met at a bar around 1am on a Friday night. He came over, we talked briefly, he happened to be one of the cuter boys in the place that night so we made out for a few minutes. He was so cute in fact, I was willing to overlook the fact that he was wearing one of the lamest, most douche-baggy shirts I’d ever seen in my life; a white button down short sleeve dress shirt with two guns in a holster screen printed across the back and front.

Gentlemen, please, NEVER wear a dress shirt that has been screen printed, embroidered or bedazzled. Nothing screams Bridge and Tunnel Euro-Trash quite like an embellished button down so you know this boy was cute as hell if I was willing to ignore what he had going on below the neck.

Back to the action! We’re kissing in the middle of the club (tacky but fun) but my friends wanted to leave (don’t they always just as things seem to be going well?). He asks for my number which I happily pass along and that was that. I figured it was a fun little Friday night memory. He was an adequate kisser and looked like Lillo Brancato from “A Bronx Tale” who I had a huge crush on in high school, it was a perfect little tidbit for me and my girlfriends to giggle about.

Then Sunday evening rolls around and I get a text from him asking me out. Yes, ladies, a text, which was fine with me since this obviously wasn’t going to be a guy I’d marry but he might be a nice little booty call until something better came along. He asks me out for Wednesday and I’m thinking, “It’s so on! A little dinner, a drinky-pooh and we can totally do the do!”

Wednesday afternoon, I’m waiting for the pre-date text to make sure we’re still on. And I’m waiting and waiting and waiting. I took a poll and most of the women (and men) I spoke to had the same cut off time for the “Just checking in about tonight” text: 3pm! Well, Brian sends it at 7pm. Red Flag number one! And then he tells me I need to figure out what we’re going to do. Red Flag number two!

The angel on my shoulder says, “Forget this guy. I’m gonna get a burrito and watch America’s Next Top Model. That sounds like a blast.” But my hair was already done, I’d shaved AND waxed, I looked super cute, there was no turning back, I was going.

I meet him at a bar near his place on the other side of town, partially because I didn’t want him to know where I lived but largely because his lazy ass didn’t offer to meet somewhere half way. I walk in and he’s sitting in the back looking cuter than I remembered (holla!). He hugs me and says, “I’ve been waiting for ten minutes.” Not in a cute, joking I’ve-been-so-excited-to-see-you way but in a I’ve-been-waiting-and-I’m-annoyed way. Red Flag number three. I’m starting to fear I’ve wasted gas and a good wax.

He’s drinking something and I asked what it is, “Vodka soda” he grunts. “That’s what I was going to order” I smile.

Silence! Crickets!

He’s facing the bar and there are TWO waitresses within ten feet of us while the bar is maybe one foot past them and he never offers me a drink. Not then, not later, not at any point. Klassy! Apparently he was unable to form the words to offer me either a drink OR a compliment. No “You look nice”. Nothing! I remained parched and largely unnoticed for the rest of the evening.

I sit down in a long booth and he takes a seat…about four feet away from me. “Why are you sitting so far away?” I ask. “This was where I was sitting before you got here and I’m comfortable.” Awesome! He’s sullen, crabby, and apparently unable to make eye contact while sitting far enough away from me to convince me I have bubonic plague.

Over the next 17 minutes this is what I learn:

-He’s an “actor” who works as a flower shop delivery guy two days a week. Just say you live off your parents and have no career and save the energy.

-He thinks telling me my breath smells will inspire me to fall madly in love with him…it doesn’t. It makes me want to kick him in the nuts.

-Despite the fact his father passed away a few years ago, he proclaims he doesn’t believe in memories or photographs. “Every moment is perfect. I live in the perfection of now,” he tells me as I silently dry heavy, “Holding onto the past is a waste of the now. What do you do when you eat something that tastes bad?” he asks me. “I spit it out” I answer. “DON’T! Taste it! Experience it! You need the bad moments to appreciate the good,” He proclaims sounding like a bad acting teacher or a Scientology reject. “No, I don’t,” I explain, “I REMEMBER what bad tastes like so I don’t make the mistake of eating it again,” I say, ironically, since you could insert the word “date” where the word “eat” is and maybe he’d see I’m talking about him!

“I just know myself really well,” he says (something no one under the age of 50 should ever say) “I don’t want to talk about me anymore.”

This is the moment, Men, where you’re supposed to say, “Let’s talk about you”. He doesn’t. He finishes his drink and says, “I’m thirsty.” "Me TOO,” I practically bark. “I don’t want something alcoholic though.” “Just a little somethin’ to whet yur whistle?” I’m so thoroughly over him, I don’t even try to mask the sarcasm. Then he starts staring at me. “What? Are we having a staring contest now?” I ask. “Do you want to have a staring contest” he counters, taking a wild stab at being sexy...and missing. Now that I feel like I’ve walked into The 40 Year Old Virgin, I’ve had enough.

“Since you don’t want to talk about you, let me tell you something about me,” I say, reaching into my bag and pulling out the two condoms I brought with me on the off chance Brian actually had game. “Just so you know, you totally could’ve fucked me tonight but you’ve played this so badly, I’m gonna go.” “Are you serious?” he asks, stunned. “Oh yeah,” I smile, “and the next time you invite a girl out, you should actually try to get to know her and not treat her like a piece of furniture.”

With that, I grab my bag and I’m out the door.

Not two minutes later I get two text messages. “Wow :)” and “Thanks for meeting me.”

I delete his number from my Blackberry.

An hour and a half later I get a third text: “The next time you meet a guy just to have sex, you should come right out and tell him, don’t beat around the bush.”

I didn’t respond; he wasn’t worth it. Besides, I was too busy wondering why he was living in the perfection of a moment that had happened almost two hours ago.

Like I said; Dating Sucks!