Walking Disaster

…Also known as the official story of why I deleted Hinge and vowed to never delve into the dating app world again. The next time my dad, or friend, or cousin, or grandma, or family friend desperately trying her best to make conversation asks the asinine question of “how is a sweet girl like you still single?” I will immediately do one of two things. Either remind them, to the best of my ability, how very not sweet I can be, or I will direct them to this moment in time. This is both my villain origin story, and an explanation for the next man I’m on a date with, who is forced to ask why I have a machete and/or blowtorch on hand. This is also a case study on the importance of having some badass bitches around you. If any man is reading this — please take this as a “what not to do” guide.

Let me begin with a disclaimer before any readers blindly assume that I’m a moron for allowing any part of this to happen, like a character in a scary movie…I did not want any of this to happen, and the whole night was so weird that I was genuinely trying to keep up with what was happening. From beginning to end, this so-called “date” lasted all of 10 minutes and I spent most of it trying to determine if I was being pranked, or in a hallucinatory fever dream. I literally did the math based on evidence from my phone: 6:09 to 6:18. That’s it. Here’s how it started.

I show up to an address that is not a bar, as I previously thought, but is in a clearly residential area, and this isn’t even a house, it’s a dentist office that he lives behind. Not that he needed to live in a mansion, but honesty matters, and I thought we were meeting somewhere public. Always meet in public! No matter, I trudged on, ignoring the first of many red flags. He comes out of his, let’s call it an apartment, and is not even remotely dressed for a first date. I’m dressed in jeans and a nice top, hair and face looking distinctly not my own, and he is in stained jeans and a black tee shirt. Last but not least, as soon as he starts talking, he continues talking, and proceeds to not stop talking, at all. As I am corralled into his apartment — he was doing that awful thing where someone walks behind you so you have no choice but to go forward, whether you want to or not — I realize why he is talking so much…he is already drunk! Solid first impression.

Do I want to be in this apartment? No. But this guy is bigger than me and I am maybe 30 seconds into the evening and he claimed he just wanted to grab his jacket before we left. His TV is still on, and again, I should’ve realized that he didn’t want to leave when he didn’t turn it off. He proceeds to take out shot glasses and pour whiskey, the whole time rambling in one giant run on sentence, about the special whiskey he has straight from Ireland, that he got especially while in Ireland where he was busy being so Irish in the country known as Ireland that a catholic leprechaun bestowed him this whiskey on a floating shamrock. Listen dipshit, I know how traveling works, and I know that this basic booze came from the duty free section of Dublin Airport and you bought it specifically to have this one-sided conversation. And while we’re at it, I don’t give a green fuck that your mom was born in Belfast, and now lives in County Kerry with your extended family. The vast majority of white Americans are Irish and lucky for me, I have enough Irish in my ancestry to *not* feel the need to go on about it, and that gives me just enough genetic drunken anger to let this guy know that he should not want me to have this whiskey right now.

Exactly one minute in, and he is rambling so much about Ireland, and also his landlord who gave him a rent-controlled dump, he luckily doesn’t notice me pour my shot in the sink and text my roommate and friends that this is already a no go. Apparently the whiskey shot wasn’t enough for this walking red flag, and he proceeds to try and make a cocktail of whiskey and ginger beer in red solo cups.

Quick interlude about this drink because it was ridiculous for a number of reasons. First and foremost, he starts by discussing the very novel idea of ginger beer, mentioning he has this new brand he thinks is great, not sure if I’ve ever had it…it’s Bundaberg. You know, the mixer sold in bulk literally everywhere? It’s so exclusive it’s only sold in high end places like 7-Eleven or Costco. Second, as he’s getting the ice out of the freezer, he decides this is a good moment to give my ass a nice tap. Gee, thanks Coach! Third, he pours a ridiculous amount of this sacred and exclusive whiskey into this drink, and now I know exactly what he’s hoping for. This time he’s rambling about HBOMax and how he has an account, and I’m welcome to use it, and doesn’t understand why people even bother with those other shit streaming services. How someone who lets slip that they only have a high school diploma can sound so pretentious about how to watch TV is beyond me.

Keep in mind, we are still maybe seven minutes in. I can tell because of the way my texts to friends change from annoyed to pissed off, because this shaved Sasquatch legitimately pushes me to go sit at his kitchen table, then proceeds to close his front door and dim the lights. Fuck no. I told the first friend who texts back that I need an exit strategy and I need it yesterday. As much as I want to say “hey this isn’t going to work, you were clearly raised by wolves, and not in a fun way; I’m going to leave,” there is a very real problem of this guy being way bigger than me (something that is usually a pro, and turns into a con really fucking fast), between me and the door, and hammered. I am not taking any chances.

One of my friends, who clearly moonlights as Meryl Streep, calls me in actual tears due to a pregnancy test that’s positive, and she doesn’t know what to do, or how to tell her boyfriend, oh no what to do! Such a solid performance, really a 10/10, that I can answer on speaker for 1.5 seconds while I’m already up and walking, and that was all I needed to be convincing. I mention that I clearly have to go, I do not let him speak, and I am out the door before he can even try to lurch out of his chair, sprinting like nobody’s business out to my car. Shout out to the gay men I grew up with who never let me take off my heels at fancy events, because I am now pretty sure that I can do a 50 yard dash, in heels, with a time to rival Tyreek Hill.

Final step is to jump in my car, lock the door, tell her she’s amazing and I will buy her Starbucks for a week (inflation be damned), and drive home immediately. Also made sure to call my roommate, who’s post-gym shower was longer than this whole ordeal, and let her know to bust open the wine, because I’m stopping for cookies on the way home and need to rage eat.

On the real, this is an experience I never want to have again. I know it sounds self-centered to say this, because the vast majority of women deal with assholes like this, but I really feel like I attract a certain brand of weird. The last hinge date before this was super weird and borderline nefarious too! But, as with most things in life, I have learned from this. I have learned that the next time I am getting ready for a date, and have a huge amount of anxiety and stress and/or am already making murder jokes with my roommate, I’m going to take as my intuition rearing it’s dry and sardonic head, and will turn around, take my makeup off and stay at home safe…with my pepper spray.