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Past is prologue – Top 5 Worst Dates

September 19, 2009

If past is prologue, my future looks grim.   My dating life resembles bucolic landscapes littered with mines.  Flowery starts, explosive ends.  But the Bard didn’t leave us tethered completely to our history.  The line ends, “what to come, in yours and my discharge.”

And so I begin 50 Dates with a prologue of dates past – my top 5 worst dates, that is.  Tempests I have seen.   Six degrees of separation from me, rainbows I hope will follow.

#5 – The BMW

His BMW convertible was an odd shade of purple, with the top down and the music loud.   The letters B,M, and W linked together on a logo normally would not have held my attention.  Contrary to prevailing tastes, I am not the gold-digging kind.  In fact, I have trust issues with men who possess money.  It seems to inspire a desire for more acquisitions, and I am no man’s door prize.

What caught my eye was the license plate.  A special tag bragging that the driver was a triathlete.  I looked up to see his biceps unfettered by sleeves, and the cuts of his dark-skinned muscles sparkling like diamonds in the noonday sun.   I was behind the BMW, waiting for the light to turn green.  I had 39 seconds to put the car in park, primp, open my windows, change lanes, and then act as if I hadn’t noticed him at all.

Yes, that’s right.  I put myself in position, and then did what any sensible girl should do if she wants a boy.  Ignore him.   More accurately, ignore him while looking decorative.  That man in that car with those guns for arms was not looking to be chatted up.   The package, tags and all, bellowed confidence.  We were at the corner of 7th and ‘R’ Streets, NW.   His peripheral vision was acute, and if he were interested, he’d make a move by ‘P’ Street, latest.

Our triathelete didn’t waste time.  By ‘M’ Street we were talking cars, by ‘K’ we were laughing about his last race, and by ‘G’ we were pulling to the side for a speeding fire truck and swapping digits.  I feigned shyness and hesitated to share numbers.  5 minutes, 39 seconds.  I had surely beaten my personal record.

Over the coming days, voicemails were exchanged and details were discussed.  The triathelete was a cop by profession, patrolling the waterfront because he was also a licensed diver, naturally.  Given the unpredictably of nocturnal marine criminality, we chose brunch for our first, and only, date.

We met at a diner, conveniently named The Diner, in the funky, relatively affordable Adams Morgan neighborhood.  From the moment I sat down, it turned into the ‘I am man, hear me roar’ show.  The triathelete showered me with tales of undercover busts of pimps and narcotic rings.  When he wasn’t talking cops and robbers, he was explaining how astutely he had flipped several properties in his neighborhood and hoped to retire early, leaving more time for – triathlons.

Granted, he was doing all the talking, but I couldn’t have been surprised by his testosterone display.  I envisioned a couple weeks of late-summer silliness, peppered with joy rides in the BMW and boat rides on the river.  He could talk all he wanted. I picked at my dry egg sandwich and exclaimed at the appropriate moments.  That is, until our server came back.  She looked at me directly, asking if we would be paying together.  He answered before I could process her request.  “No, she will be paying separately.”

And so, one hour and $7.19 later, I was on my way home, on foot, alone, and stunned.  I remind you, dear reader, that my boy vice of choice that day was not greed, but vanity.  Yes, I was shameless in my pursuit, but the wealth that the convertible suggested was a secondary pleasure.  My primary delight concerned the definition of body parts.

But the story doesn’t end there.  On cue, he called me the next day, asking me out on another date.  I pressed delete on the house-flipping, BMW-driving, hater of egg sandwiches.  Gentlemen, please find this man a clue.


I invite you all to share your horror stories with 50 Dates.  Misery loves an audience.  Gentlemen, I am under no illusion about the craziness that is the female of the species.  Feel free to tell your tales of woe.  I will post the best tales on a separate page dedicated to bad dates.

8 Comments leave one →
  1. citygirlblogs permalink
    September 21, 2009 8:32 am

    Love your idea to go on 50 dates in the coming months and blog about what happens! Good luck :)!

    Here’s my worst first date story:

  2. Red Head permalink
    September 21, 2009 2:39 pm

    sounds like we need to double-date!
    I’ve had the foot-licker, the “I love you” magnet guy, the crier, and the “you can pay me back $1 for the parking meter when the check comes” guy.

  3. Heather permalink
    October 2, 2009 2:36 pm

    Where are less-than-delightful dates 4, 3, 2, and 1?! I’m dying of curiosity. I’ve managed to avoid dating almost entirely (the dyke moving van stories are all too true in my case). But I find others’ stories of dating absolutely delicious…

  4. October 20, 2009 10:48 am

    Wait a min, I am confused. Forgive me if I totally read your post incorrect, for I am at work and read it a hurry…but are you saying…it was the worst date because he didnt pay?

    • Geeta permalink
      October 20, 2009 11:22 am

      Yes and no. There are plenty of situations where not paying is not a deal breaker. My date didn’t pay after he went to great lengths to brag to me about his business savvy, and after wooing me in a macho, masculine fashion. And don’t forget his BMW. He wanted to be seen as a certain type of sexy, successful male. That’s fine, but paying for a $7 sandwich comes with that image. If you’re not willing to pay, and make a point of not paying, then the mirage is just that.

  5. Terry in Silver Spring permalink
    October 21, 2009 11:11 am

    Oh, I’ve had some doozies. An overview:

    – A man who spent more than half an hour discussing why he hates pandas. Yes, pandas.

    – A man who started seriously crying over dinner about his ex-wife. Nice man, not ready to date yet.

    – An engineer who told me that his team had played a large role in the inspection of the O rings that caused the space shuttle Challenger explosion, but that he felt no responsibility or remorse over it as many other folks should have caught the problem, too.

    – A man who told me, as a Catholic, that I’m going to burn in Hell and that his minister knows all about the Catholics so he doesn’t have to listen to or read anything.

    – A man who arrived to a blind date late, then only wanted to talk about the song One Night in Bangkok and the stage play from which the song originally came. Interesting as a passing fact, boring as a long term topic of discussion.

  6. Tracy permalink
    December 22, 2009 11:46 am

    Wonderful writing – you have found the keys to dating – an open mind and a great sense of humor. Your writing makes me feel like I’m there with you with the conservative, the macho man… I could definitely add to the list – bad table manners guy, no show guy, touchy, feely guy! I have an additional suggestion – how about hearing about the best dates out there too!!! Will give you hope to push through the 50!

  7. February 5, 2010 3:46 pm

    I read this with great interest. I am quite surprised that you didn’t pick up on his “beta male-ness” much sooner, like say, during the phone conversations.

    The purpose of the date is getting to know you, not telling glorious tales of houses flipped and money accumulated.

    He was trying to impress you. That’s beta. It implies he didn’t think he was good enough. Either you’re too attractive for him, or he’s inexperienced.

    Here’s an interesting detail. The waitress asked YOU if you’ll be paying. Why did she address you? Did he order for the both of you? Did she sense things weren’t going well? Did she detect the presence of a beta?

    Notes: 1. I’m a guy. 2. If you don’t know what beta is, just see my site.

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