If I’m not
mistaken, I have previously made a few (20 or 30) passing references to my bad
luck with women. But until now, I
haven’t really gone into detail on any of it.
And I think it’s time for that to change. What better way to start it off than with a ridiculous first date
story?
Now, before
I get into the bulk of it, I need to give you a bit of back-story. I met this girl through a co-worker at a
birthday party. I’m not quite sure what
sealed the deal for me, whether it was my off-key singing, my rhythmless dance
moves or my awkward conversation, but by the end of the night I had her phone
number. The next day, after I overcame
the initial shock of this actually happening, I texted her (and she
surprisingly responded). We talked for
a few days and she agreed to a date. If
you’re still with me at this point, I assume that you are as surprised by this
chain of events as I was.
I spent
tens of minutes poring over every single detail before the date actually
happened (I’m a guy, it doesn’t take me very long). I made sure my hair looked nice, my clothes matched and my breath
didn’t stink. I picked her up in my
extremely impressive Chevy Cavalier (a vehicle that obviously says “I save
money on gas so I can buy you nice things”).
I did the gentlemanly thing and opened her door for her, walked around
to my side, got in and started the car.
This was my first indication that something might be wrong: my car
struggled to start. In the 9 years of
having the car, I’d never really had any trouble with it, and it still started
on the first try, so I figured I’d just get it looked at later.
I drove to
the restaurant, parallel parked (terribly) and we sat down for a nice
dinner. Dinner itself went well (I
think). To most outsiders, I would have
seemed like a guy that doesn’t regularly put his foot in his mouth during
normal conversation. Unfortunately,
after our food was done, the waitress apparently forget that we were supposed
to pay and the two of us sat there an extra 30 minutes desperately trying to
flag down a waitress while making obligatory jokes about how the meal must be
free. Eventually, the meal was paid for
and we went back to my car.
This is
where the night comes to a screeching halt.
As I turned the key in the ignition, my heart sank. My car refused to turn over. Naturally, I made the obvious joke and
exclaimed, “I swear this has never happened before,” before (suavely) following
it up with “I heard a lot of guys have performance issues…” I stared meekly
under the hood and then made two phone calls.
First to a friend to come pick us up, and second to a tow company to
take my car to a shop. Then, because we
were right outside a bar, we went inside for a few drinks while we waited.
My friend
arrived far more quickly than the tow truck. Thankfully, he had no idea what
was wrong with the car either, so I didn’t look like a total doofus. He then
joined us at the bar for what was the absolute definition of a third wheel
situation. Now, I have to give him
credit for sitting off to the side and letting my date and I talk on our
own. But it also ended up feeling like
a parent-chaperoned date, where you dad tries to make himself scarce by sitting
2 tables away from you. It got even
weirder after the tow truck came. Since
my friend was driving us home, my date sat in the backseat. And since I didn’t know what else to do, I
sat in the backseat with her. I never
went on any dates before I was able to drive, but I am now abundantly aware of
how awkward they would have been to have a chaperone. We alternated between hushed conversations in the backseat and
trying to include my friend in the front seat.
And by the time we dropped her off, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to lock
myself in my room and listen to angsty music or for my friend to pat me on the
should and say “I’m proud of you, sport “(is that how middle school dates
ended?).
-Ryan
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