I checked myself in the rear-view mirror one last time before deciding to apply more lipgloss. Normally I didn’t worry so much about bringing my A-game, but I’d been looking forward to this date for days.
I’d met him on OKCupid a week earlier. Intrigued by his somewhat mysterious profile and abundance of what appeared to be sarcasm, I decided to rock on with my bad self, make the first move and message him.
I honestly can’t tell from your profile whether you’re a complete asshole or the most awesome guy on the planet because your sense of humor is as sick as mine, so I figured I’d just take a chance and message you anyway…
Moments later he responded and we briefly flirted via instant message before exchanging phone numbers.
It was too soon to tell if our exchange would amount to anything – still I was excited by the idea that this guy might actually be a keeper.
Drinks desperately?! Marry me.
Twenty minutes of textually zinging each other later, and I had a date.
It was the first time in my online dating experience that a guy had asked me out so quickly, but I found his gusto attractive. It made me feel like he was ambitious – a quality I appreciate immensely after dating one too many lazy bastards.
We definitely had chemistry over the phone, so I thought we might also hit it off in person. Visions of sparks-flying danced in my head, leading me to get my hopes up over where this could go.
I really wanted to make a great first impression, so over the next week I put extra effort into preparing for our first date.
I even read a self-help book on online dating for fuck’s sake.
In a premeditated attempt to avoid awkward pauses in conversation, I asked him very few questions about himself leading up to our meeting. I figured the less I knew about him before, the more we’d have to talk about during.
After applying a fresh coat of lipgloss, I shot him a quick text to let him know I’d arrived. I then took a deep breath, stepped out of my car and made my way towards the bar to meet him for drinks.
As I rounded my bumper, a red Porsche sped into the lot and pulled in next to me, nearly running me over. I rolled my eyes in disgust at the stranger behind the wheel.
“What a douche,” I mumbled under my breath.
Other women may be impressed by expensive red cars, but not me. I actually find that kind of flashy shit ridiculous.
I peered at the extremely tall driver, who literally looked like he’d crammed himself into the tiny two-door car. As he opened the door and swung his long legs out to exit, the first things I noticed were his designer jeans and shoes. By my calculations, their retail value added up to more than my one month’s rent.
“What a douche,” I mumbled again under my breath.
Again, other women may be impressed by designer clothes, but not me.
I’d only purchased a designer label once in my life – a pair of Seven jeans when I was in my early twenties. It nearly killed me to spend $125 on a pair of jeans, but a friend of mine who lived for fashion had convinced me that my ass would look amazing in them.
As I made eye contact with the driver, he grinned from ear to ear.
That’s when I realized the big dick driving the little car was my date.
He walked over and gave me an awkward hug. I politely smiled, though every part of me wanted to flee. Fancy car and designer clothes aside, I was also turned off by the fact that he looked nothing like his profile picture.
In his defense he had texted me earlier that day giving me a heads up that his hair was much longer than it was in his profile picture, but I’d thought he was joking.
“Are we talking heavy metal long, or is it more of a mullet?” I’d teased.
“I’ve been told I look like George Clooney in The Decendants, gray hair and all.”
His head was buzzed in his profile picture and there was not a touch of gray – so of course I thought he was pulling my leg.
Turns out he wasn’t.
He wasn’t unattractive by any means, he just wasn’t attractive to me.
Still, the date had to go on so I followed him into the bar – hoping to have one drink and get the hell out of there.
I ordered a Rum & Diet Coke and he ordered a Scotch -after which he proceeded to go on a tangent about different kinds of Scotch, how you’re supposed to pour it and how he usually only drinks some expensive label that costs $40 a glass, but couldn’t tonight because they didn’t have it there.
I wanted to roll my eyes, but somehow managed to contain myself.
“So what do you do for work?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
I should say right now that he left the “Occupation” portion of his online dating profile blank – which I thought was an attempt to be mysterious. In fact, a lot of his information was blank. About the only thing I knew about him was that he was 36.
“Oh, I’m a waiter at Houlihan’s.”
Al-righty then.
“So you’re thirty-six and you’re a waiter at Houlihan’s?” I asked.
“Actually, I’m thirty-eight,” he replied.
At this point I knew there was ZERO chance of anything coming of this date.
You see, my ex was a waiter. At first I believed the job was a means to support our family while he finished college. But I quickly realized that after he graduated with a degree and never even attempted to get a job in his field of study, that he was content with being a waiter for the rest of his life.
Why? Because it was quick cash that required minimal effort. He didn’t have goals or dreams. In time I discovered that his only aspiration was to bed other women.
“I don’t mean to sound rude, but my ex was a waiter so I’m pretty familiar with how much money they make… How can you possibly afford to drive a Porsche, wear designer clothes and shoes, and drink $40 glasses of Scotch on tips alone?”
Over the next forty-five minutes he explained to me exactly how a thirty-eight year old waiter could afford such lavish things:
He’s never been married, has no children, and still lives with his parents, so he doesn’t have to worry about rent.
His parents bought him his Porsche, so he has no car payment.
And the clothes and shoes? Well it seems Mr. Douchetastic has a bit of an addiction… to Nordstrom’s.
Once a month he treats himself to an expensive shopping spree, which he charges to his AmEx card(I’m guessing it’s actually his parent’s). He then proudly wears his expensive clothes for a few months, but later reattaches the tags and returns them to Nordstrom’s for a credit to buy a whole new wardrobe.
He also admitted that the only reason he asked me out on a date so quickly, was because he knew there was a Nordstrom’s near me. Turns out the one by him has become suspicious of his excessive returns and he needed a new location to shop at.
When I finally had a brief moment to talk about myself, I mentioned my son.
“Oh you have a kid? Was that on your profile?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied.
“Oh. You know I talk to a lot of women and go on a lot of dates so it’s hard to keep track. I actually went to look at your profile before I came here, but I couldn’t even remember which dating site I met you on.”
CHECK!!!
As I drove home that night I felt defeated – but I knew I was partially to blame for ending up on a date with Mr. Douchetastic. After all he’d been forthcoming about what an asshole he was on his OKCupid profile – I’d just mistaken his honesty for sarcasm.
Had I asked him more important questions leading up to the date like, “Do you ripoff retail stores and currently reside in your parent’s basement?” I’d have known not to get my hopes up – or even go on the date at all.
Lessons learned.
While I didn’t find love that night, I did find inspiration for this blog post – so it wasn’t all bad.
That’s the great thing about being a blogger. You get to tell the world about your craptastic dates, and in doing so you see the humor in them instead of letting them break you.
Lucky me.
