Shitty Dates

Why I appreciate my husband.

My husband, when we met, was married. I was friends with his wife. Let’s just say that she was poorly behaved in the relationship right from the start. I wouldn’t lower myself to using labels like, rhymes with pumpkin-eater. After they broke up, John and I started having dinners together now and again but he was firmly in the friend zone, until the night at the beachfront restaurant near his house when he made the bold move and pressed me into the ivy covered wall outside the door and kissed me.

I was shocked. I had a “Moonstruck” moment when I was going to scream “Snap out of it!” when I looked at his soft warm eyes, and said instead “That was not terrible. Do it again.”

We have been together ever since that night, 24 years ago.

Before that, I had lots of shitty dates.

1999, the year I began online dating.

My boss at the jewelry store that I helped manage, was a mad inventor and came up with a platform for an online dating site. He begged me to try it out. I did the profile and before long, I got a match. The man he matched me with, wasn’t a great writer but although that is a fairly good indication that someone is dull, I overlooked it. We had phone conversations that were quite witty. His picture was cute, he looked tall with an average body, light brown fluffy hair frosting his head. He said in his profile that he was 40. I was 47. He said he liked older women..hmmm.. Mother complex? Any single male readers, beware. Don’t say that to a woman. It immediately implies that this person would like a caregiver.

We agreed to meet at The Keg. I bought a new dress for this first time blind date experience. Since I lived on the island -I took the car ferry over and drove to The Keg. He was already there, 2 points for punctuality but no flowers so deduct a point. He vaguely looked like his picture, except his pants cinched below his belly apron and he was wearing a Raiders T-shirt.

He was not 40, he had wrinkles that were 40. He looked 55 and I am being generous. His hairline started at the middle of his head and his now dirty blond hair was slicked to his scalp. He was at least 60 lbs heavier than his picture.

I am a chubby girl, more now than then and never fat judge anyone. The lies didn’t bother me as much as wearing a sports Tshirt on a first date. I was ready to give this sloppy liar a chance, then he said the words that doomed him to being alone for the rest of his life.

He smiled and said “This place is a little too fancy for me, let’s go across the street to McDonalds.”

I smiled the smile of a psychopath, right before stabbing their victim in the gut.

“Sure.” I replied thinly. Cool, Crisp,

We went to McDonalds, which wasn’t nice even for a McDonalds. The lighting had the charm of an abortion clinic and the food was cold.

My phone rang, a sales call for car insurance. I answered “ Hi are you okay? Uh huh, oh my God, do you need help? You do, well of course, I will be right there. You just hold on.” The salesman was perplexed and kept asking if I was okay and did I want more information on the Seabreeze policy. “Of course I answered, I will see you in a minute.” He replied “What, wait…”

I hung up and told Mr. Raiders T-shirt guy that I had to run, my brother is having an emergency. He responded, “Can I eat your burger and fries?”

The next date was with the head of the drama department of a very prestigious boys school for 30 years. That was a great foundation, he was a delightful writer and very probably smarter than me. I like that. We met in an Irish pub in Gastown in Vancouver. He hadn’t mentioned his Ronald Reagan red toupee or the fact he was an inch shorter than me. He dressed like a teacher, brown cords and a tweed jacket. Everyone knew him in the pub. That can be a good sign or a bad sign but I always think that an axe murderer is probably not going to make a ton of friends.

After we went to the pub, we went to a nearby Indian restaurant. As we sat, he was madly digging in his wallet and smiling, produced a Groupon. On the first date, a fucking Groupon. Right up there with the Raiders T-shirt in my book.

So we chatted through dinner, by that I mean, he talked constantly about how marvelous he is, how many teaching awards he got, and the very famous people he taught like Jimmy Vallance and Tom Howie of the Bob Moses band.

I had never heard of them but pretended to be starstruck. He continued with Pat Palmer, rugby star, and a various amounts of Olympians. The tuition back then was $64,000 a year - now it is $100,000 a year.

The boredom was settling into my bones and making them ache a little but I agreed to a second date. I was about 25% impressed by him. Maybe he was just nervous and not a narcissist with a giant ego. Maybe.

Date 2 - We met at the Irish pub…again. Sat on the same stools. He wore the same outfit. It was like deja-vu. We are sitting in the Indian restaurant and he was digging in his goddamned wallet looking for his goddamned Groupon and I totally realized why his wife divorced him. He went through life with his own little path, with his own interests in mind. In fact, there was nothing that really interested him outside himself.

Toward the end of dinner, he announced that we were going to his place for a glass of wine so I could admire his original John Lennon etchings. I was scrambling for an excuse in my mind as he was digging in his wallet for the card for the cab company that he liked. He got up to go to the bathroom and I debated just bolting for the door. I should have just been brave and told him the truth, that I felt NO romantic connection. But I had decided instead to lie and say my sister was in labor and I had to drive to Seattle. I don’t have a sister in Seattle.

He came out of the bathroom, looking a little disheveled. His red toupee was cocked on his head like a French beret. He sat down at the table, and started wheezing. He uttered “Allergic to peanuts.” as he slid to the floor. The waiter called 911 and they were there very quickly and thank God I didn’t have to give him mouth to mouth.

I whispered to him on the way out the door, “Do you want me to come with you to the hospital?” He was already looking better since the epinephrine kicked in from the EMTs. He shook his head no.

The waiter brought me a glass of wine to sooth my nerves. Inside I was singing, “Zippity Do Dah!” I have never been so relieved to have someone carted away in an ambulance.