Awful First Dates

by Sarah Wexler

  DENNY’S DREAMBOAT

  He picked me up and took me to dinner...at Denny's. I remained calm. We sat down and looked at our menus, and I told him I felt like having a hamburger. When the waitress came by, he ordered the same thing for both of us: the cheapest breakfast meal. He then proceeded to argue with her about how the same meal was twenty cents more at dinnertime than in the morning, and demanded the morning price. After she walked away, I sat there, stunned. My date yelled, "Awkward silence!"

  HE’S HOT DOGGIN’

  For our first date, we went to an outdoor bar along the boardwalk for a late afternoon drink. After two margaritas, the date was going fine and I started getting hungry—I was hoping it would lead into dinner together. The bar owner picked up the microphone and announced they were starting a hot-dog-eating contest, and my date looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and ran up to the stage. Uhh, what? He then started hooting and pounding on his chest like a gorilla. I sat there speechless while I watched him shove hot dog after hot dog in his mouth—his face was all red and he had pieces of wet bun (he dunked the dogs in soda first, I guess to get them down more easily) stuck to his face. He actually came in second place, which he thought was pretty impressive when he came back to the table. I'd lost my appetite for dinner—and a second date.

  THE IRON CHEF

  A very cute and buff guy invited me over to his place, saying he wanted to cook me dinner. When I got there, he pulled out some frozen tamales and popped them in the microwave. He served them on paper plates along with tap water in giant plastic cups. He ate his in under thirty seconds and then began to go on and on about how slowly I ate and how he couldn't believe I wasn't finished yet. He was getting more and more irritated and stood behind me waiting for me to finish so he could clean up.

  Awful First Dates: Hollywood Dispatch

  "I went on one blind date, and after that I never, ever did again. The guy repeated everything he said twice. He'd say, 'So, how are you? How are you?' and I'd say I was fine, and he'd say, 'Good, good.'

  Or 'I'll have the mac n' cheese, please. Yeah, the mac n' cheese.' I don't know if there was something actually wrong with him or if it was just a bad habit, but no more blind dates after that."

  —singer Eliza Doolittle

  Chapter 11

  MISS “IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S ME. NO, REALLY.”

  In every dating disaster you've read up until this point, it was always the other person's fault. It would be so much easier to end the book here and pretend that men are the problem, and that our personality flaws, freak-outs, and screw-ups never jeopardized anything with the guy who could've been the one. Well, we're only human. Just like the guys you've read about, women occasionally do something weird, say something stupid, read too much into who pays, or get way too drunk—or sometimes pull all of these in one night. Sorry, boys.

  For example, one guy wrote in about this psycho hose-beast:

  "I met a girl at a birthday party and sparks flew, so I asked her out for a drink afterward. Halfway through the night, she asked me about 'the status of our relationship.' I stammered that we were just having our first drink and that we should perhaps not call it a relationship yet. When she heard that, she started shaking, crying, and screaming. She yelled that I'd wasted her time and stormed out.

  I asked for the check and was paying when she stormed back in, swearing at me. I ignored her and walked out to my car—she followed me, and when I unlocked the doors, she jumped in and refused to get out, demanding to know why I wouldn't date her. When I eventually got her out of the car, she called me repeatedly until 2 a.m., begging me to sleep with her and asking why I didn't love her when it was so obviously right. My favorite part was when, in the bar, she stopped midscream, adopted an air of exaggerated patience, and started miming taking something out of a bag and placing it on her head. I was completely flummoxed until she explained that she was 'putting on her psychologist's hat' and suggested that I was being held back by fear. She was right...the fear that she'd break into my house and decapitate my pets!"

  Yes, that chick should probably seek out the nearest psych ward. The other ladies in this chapter's offenses don't require electro-shock therapy—but they are enough for the offenders to just hang their pretty heads and say "my bad" (on second thought, no one except for characters on The Real World circa 2002 should ever say "my bad").

  THE CHARDONNAY CHUGGER

  I was really nervous for my superhot online date and overcompensated by downing a bottle of wine before I went to meet him. By the time I got to the classy wine bar he'd picked, I was completely drunk and ended up puking for over an hour and then passing out on the bathroom floor. My date carried me to a cab, but I was too incoherent to even tell him where I lived, so he took my cell phone and called the only number he knew would give him my address—my mom.

  STRESSED—AND UNDERDRESSED

  We were supposed to meet at a cute restaurant in my neighborhood at 7:30 that night. I went out to walk my dog, leaving just enough time to shower, do my hair and makeup, and change into a dress and heels when I got back. But when I got home, I realized I'd left my keys inside and locked myself out. I called a friend with the spare, but she couldn't be there for an hour. Rather than stand him up, I texted him with the situation and—to my total embarrassment—he wanted to come meet me. He showed up at my front steps all ready for our date, and I was in a ratty T-shirt and jean shorts. He handled it well, but it wasn't exactly the first impression I wanted to make.

  INTERNATIONAL EXPERIENCE

  I was taking a trip to Dublin and met a really great guy next to me on the plane. When our flight got in, we had an incredible first date—so incredible that it ended the next morning. As I was walking home—totally disheveled and wearing four-inch heels—along a historic, cobblestoned street, I heard a bunch of people laughing. I looked up and saw a bus full of tourists wearing Viking hats. Their guide, who was pointing out the sites on a microphone, had spotted me and was telling them: "And on your left is a local girl doing the 'Walk of Shame' after a long night out."

  CLEANUP, AISLE THREE!

  We went to a hockey game, where I had quite a few drinks, and then out to dinner. When we got back to his house, I threw up all over his floor, and then I peed myself. I have never been more mortified, especially because I drink often and I've never lost bladder control. So while he kindly cleaned everything up, I swore at him and accused him of drugging me, since that was obviously the only reason I could come up with for embarrassing myself so much.

  NOT SANTA’S LITTLE HELPER

  Last December, I saw a guy dressed as Santa at the bar—we spent a few hours talking and making out, so I invited him over. We started to make out at my house but were both really drunk, and he passed out. I tried to put his cell phone on the nightstand but dropped it, smashing the screen and making the back piece shoot off, lost somewhere under the bed. In the morning, when he was walking out the door, I handed him his phone, and he started cussing. Luckily, I closed the door and never saw him again, but I did find a stray Santa boot under my bed with some cell phone pieces.

  HOT FOR HIM

  I was on one of those awkward, what-do-we-have-in- common first dates where both of us were grasping at conversational straws. Trying to be a little flirtatious, I took my long hair down from a ponytail and flipped it. The folks at the table behind ours then tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Um, miss? Your hair is on fire." Which it was; the end had singed on their candle. After I put it out, the entire cafe smelled like burned hair, but I tried to laugh it off with the guy. But we still didn't have anything to talk about—even setting myself on fire hadn't broken the ice with this guy.

  DR. STRANGESMELL

  He was intelligent, sweet, and lovely. We were having such a great time at dinner that we decided to continue on to a bar. We were getting cozy in a little booth, tucked away from everyone else, and got into an extremely intense conversation. Right in the middle of me saying something "important," despite my bes
t efforts to control it, I let out a silent but absolutely stinking fart. It lingered, and there was no one else around to possibly blame it on. I was so embarrassed that I just wanted to get away, so I hailed the first cab I could find, hastily cheek-kissed, hopped in, and left. The next day I realized I should get over myself, so I wrote him about going out again, but I never heard back.

  THE GOOGLE STALKER

  I met a friend of a friend at a bar, went home, and Googled the crap out of him. His name plus every damn thing I knew about him as a second search term: his name AND ice hockey; his name AND his alma mater; etc. We go on our date and have a wonderful time, during which we flirtatiously quibble over something trivial that we decide must be Googled immediately. We return to my apartment, he types in the trivial quibble...and in the Google dropdown list of the recently searched terms is his name fifteen times. He never called me again.

  SHE’S GOTTA GO

  I could tell it was a wonderful date because I didn't want to go home—every time we said we should get the check, we ended up talking for another few minutes, then saying we should go, then talking again. We'd been so deep in conversation that I suddenly realized I had to pee...bad. He offered to walk me home, and since I lived close by, I decided not to break the momentum by excusing myself to the ladies' room and would just go in ten minutes when I got home. Of course, the walk was just as conversation-packed and meandering. Once we got to my front door, I was in so much pain that I was actually hurrying him and giving one-word answers so I could get inside. He finally realized I was trying to wrap it up, and when he leaned in to kiss me good night, I finally couldn't take it anymore and I just started peeing.

  ACCIDENTS HAPPEN

  On my way to the date, someone hit my car and fled the scene. Though my car was totaled, I managed to get my roommate to come get me after the police left and drop me off at the restaurant. Because I didn't want to be a drama queen or worry him, since I felt okay, I didn't mention any of this to my date. However, my nerves were shaken, so I drank more than I usually would to calm down. At one point he went to touch my knee, and to my horror I realized I must have injured it in the wreck, as apparently while we were sitting there, the wound started to bleed through my jeans. With the heavy drinking, the bloody knee I hadn't noticed, and the fact that my roommate dropped me off, my date decided I had a drinking problem and even after I explained what happened, he didn't return my call.

  ROMANCE AND RACCOONS

  The building I lived in had a severe raccoon problem. (This was especially irritating since my landlord did nothing about it, yet owned a pest control company.) After drinks with a super cute guy, we ended up sitting outside on the porch swing together, looking up at the stars. It was really romantic, and of course I hadn't warned my date about the raccoon infestation, because what girl in her right mind would? We heard a rustling sound, and my date jumped off the seat and yelled, "What is that?!" Knowing exactly what it was, I grabbed a big stick to try to scare the raccoon off. The thing hissed at me as I jabbed at it to make it run away. But since its mouth was open wide and I couldn't exactly see, I accidentally speared the thing right through the mouth. I started screaming and my roommates ran outside as the raccoon ran off. That's when I looked around for my date—and he was running to his car and driving away. I never heard from him again, but the various raccoons hung around all year.

  THE HALLOWEEN WEENIE

  We'd been chatting on email and he suggested we meet up for the first time at his friend's Halloween party. I told him I'd be easy to recognize: I can't stand when girls dress up as sexy nurses or sexy cats, so I'd be the one wearing a giant hot dog costume. I guess he thought I was joking, because he didn't bother to tell me that no one at the party was dressing up...which I realized immediately when I arrived in costume, barely fitting my bun through the door, and saw the horrified look on his (and everyone else's) face.

  THE LUKE AND LEIA EFFECT

  He took me to a huge, elaborate dance party for the company he worked for, and he even sprung for a limo for our double date. He was cute and smart and sweet and hilarious, and we absolutely shredded that dance floor. Still, all night I had a creepy feeling that something was off. I didn't figure it out until he took me home. As he leaned in to kiss me, I realized that he was a dead ringer for my brother, so I pushed him back and ran out of there.

  THAR SHE BLOWS!

  We'd been friends for a while and I'd had a crush on him, so when he asked me out, I was so happy. We went out for beer and pizza, and then went back to his apartment. He started kissing me, and the combination of booze, greasy food, and excitement over this finally actually happening did me in, I guess, because I started throwing up—into his mouth. I reeled back and covered my mouth with my hands, but it was still coming up. I ran to his bathroom, finished throwing up, and then cleaned myself up at the sink. I went back to his room and found him stripping the sheets and wiping his face with his shirt; I'd covered him and half his room in our dinner.

  Awful First Dates: Hollywood Dispatch

  "My first date with my husband started badly. I didn't know it was a date. I thought I was going to an event, and then there was just one person at it. I was set up by friends to think I was going to an event, because they knew I wouldn't go on a date. I was angry. And he didn't know, because he thought I knew I was coming just to meet him.

  It started out really badly. But as you can see, it ended happy."

  —Salma Hayek

  CONCLUSION

  After hearing hundreds of bad date stories, one of the things that most surprised me was that, once in a long while, a bad date can turn into a good relationship. Take Salma Hayek's story—she met her date because her friends duped her, so she spent the beginning of the date steaming mad. Eventually, the man became her husband and father of her child. My own parents, who have been happily married for forty years, actually met on what my mother would consider to be a bad first date. My mom says her date was dull and that they didn't have any chemistry. So how did she end up married, based on that night? She was on a double date—and fell for her friend's date instead (my dad).

  But let's face it: most bad first dates don't lead to happily-ever-afters. They're usually awkward, embarrassing, painful, or feel like a total waste of time. (I've left many a first date mumbling, "I put on makeup for this?") But I do see a few upsides of bad dates. They make you appreciative of regular old uneventful-but-meh dates, since at least nothing horrible happened. Going out to dinner or a drink with a sociopath makes me more appreciative of times I'm actually having fun, like doing those same activities with dear friends. Hell, I've had dinner at posh restaurants with guys who turned out to be such weirdos that the next night I was thanking the lord to be sitting alone on my couch eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch for dinner.

  More than anything, bad dates bond us together. Because they're so awful, they give you a greater appreciation for the good first dates. They bond women and men, because when you have fun and you're out with a normal, nice guy, the flashbacks of weirdos past might make you want to hang onto him by the lapels and shout, "Thank goodness you're here!" (Don't actually try this—then you'll be the awful first date.) Awful first dates also bond us with other women; they give us something to laugh about and inspire a fun one-upping of "No, I have a worse date" competitions. Awful first-date stories are a common ground we can use to bridge divides, since whether you're single or married, no matter your age or where you're from—unless you're Cindy Crawford—you've probably had one. And even if it wasn't fun at the time, I bet it's a funny story now.

  Awful First Dates: Hollywood Dispatch

  "I went on a nice first date where this guy took me to a park and he brought a picnic, a backgammon board, and a blanket—it was a really great way to get to know someone in a relaxed atmosphere rather than stuffy dinner to kind of loosen things up. I've been on bad dates, but I don't want to think about those!"

  —Padma Lakshmi

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  M
ore than anyone else, I need to thank my parents: I am convinced that observing your forty-year marriage, in which you still hold hands when no one's looking, is the reason that anything else seems like settling. My Grandma Wex, who told everyone from her hairdresser to her waitress the title of this book, and who's only asked me if I'm dating someone yet roughly every week for the past ten years. Becca Shapiro, my awful first dates conspirator—i wish we could write off all those Cherry Coke Zeros we drank while talking about men as a business expense; I know that your very own Cal Ripken-Woody Allen hybrid is on his way. Kate McKean of Howard Morhaim Literary Agency, who's supertough but also so warm and reassuring that she makes me want to coin a term for a friend-agent (fragent?). Shana Drehs, my wonderful editor at Sourcebooks, for her talent, flexibility, and encouragement. Linda Wells at Allure, Joanna Coles at Marie Claire, and Lucy Kaylin at O, The Oprah Magazine, for encouraging my writing along the way and making me infinitely better at it.