Spring must be in the air – there’s been more than the average amount of talk about flirting and dating lately. The ESIs, for example, are about to unveil their much-touted and anxiously awaited Revolutionary New Dating Paradigm. Also, an online discussion group in which I participate has been exchanging worst date stories. I LOVE worst date stories.
For what it’s worth, I’ve never dated much. Somehow I’ve usually managed to bypass the dating phase and go straight from acquaintanceships into relationships. I’ve even been known to marry a virtual stranger. (Not that I advocate any of this: I don’t. Clearly I have no clue what I’m doing.)
However, I’ve done enough dating to be able to contribute a story or two to any discussion on dating hell. Here’s one of my best worst date stories from my own personal dating archives.
I was a 27-year-old single parent and student at the time. My son’s father had him every sixth weekend. I used to look forward to those sixth weekends as opportunities to put my life in order and catch up on my schoolwork, housework, recreational activities, sleep and social life. (By the end of every sixth weekend I would invariably feel I’d fallen short because I hadn’t gotten all caught up on all things. But, if I was lucky, I’d have had some grown-up fun and I would be feeling either refreshed or exhausted.)
So. This one particular Sixth Weekend, I was invited to spend a Saturday afternoon and evening at a cottage up near Masham, Quebec. “It’s a party at my friend’s cottage,” explained my date, “Great people, it’ll be lots of fun.”
We got there around mid-afternoon to find about twenty men and zero women at this party. I know first impressions can be deceiving, but these twenty men didn’t strike me as very likable or friendly. They were drinking heavily and consuming some serious drugs in startling quantities. Aside from the drugs and alcohol, the main sources of entertainment appeared to be gambling and watching porn.
I’m a good sport, really I am, and I like a good party as much as the next person. But you don’t need finely tuned spidey senses to get a funny feeling about a party like this.
I took my date aside and told him I wasn’t comfortable and I wanted to leave. He assured me that we’d leave as soon as he finished his beer. I thought he meant the beer he was currently drinking, but apparently he meant all the beer he’d brought to the party. Not only that, but he must have gotten into the drugs because he started drooling and talking in tongues. It was like a whole different language – I had no idea what he was trying to say.
Not that it mattered, because he obviously was in no condition to drive me home, and nobody else seemed either sober enough or kind enough to help me. I was stone cold sober, but I didn’t have a vehicle or a driver’s license. Nevertheless, one thing was certain: there was no way in hell I was going to be at that cottage when the sun went down.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I ended up walking about half an hour out to the highway and sticking my thumb out. I got picked up by a big, horny drunk driver who was every bit as charming as he sounds.
I did make it home safely, which was when I realized I’d lost my keys somewhere along the way. I had to break a window to get into my own apartment, but being home was so worth the cost of replacing the glass.
Okay, that’s my story. Now cheer me up and tell me about your worst date ever.