I walked out on a blind date.
I think this might’ve been the single most asshole thing I’ve done since I’ve been single.Ten minutes in, I just realized “nope this isn’t for me” and there was no pleasant way to say all that without needing a significant amount of explanation, so I just walked out, got into my car, and drove off. This may need a little back story and explanation to really understand the whole experience.
So I’m semi-active on two dating sites, Tinder and OKCupid. While on OKCupid matches people on algorithms and levels of compatibility, Tinder pretty much boils down to:
“Does your face want to fuck their face?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No”
And for the most part my response to this is, “Meh… what the hell.” I read somewhere that the way to optimize dating with Tinder is to just like every single person’s picture, which statistically expands your dating pool to everyone who likes your picture, and from there you can prune down your matches to people you actually like, all while getting a slight ego boost from the ones you un-match. So I do that. Because maths.
This girl, was a Tinder girl. Our conversation was very light and easy at first. We talk about beer, and about our careers and any number of that small chit chat people do. Within the first day, she was already talking about meeting up. Suddenly I became acutely aware of that slow sneaking, heavy musky reek of desperation. Most girls exercise a bit of caution before meeting with a stranger, y’know there are crazies and serial killers on the Internet too. Heck, I’ve had to submit a credit report, a blood sample, and a carfax before getting to go on a first date, (not literally, but you get the picture).
But she was completely gung-ho: “Hey stranger I just met on the internet, and know inherently nothing about aside from a picture and a little blurb about yourself (remember this, because it will become important later)… lets meet up!”
That was red flag number one.
I’m off the next day, and she’s been pleasant so far and again she asks me if I want to meet up… I figure heck why not. So we start figuring out where to go for dinner, and she begins rattling off the names of a few high end sushi places in the area. And now I’m thinking to myself, I like her, but I don’t necessarily $150 worth of dinner and drinks like her… maybe not even $75 and a Groupon. Which to me should have been a good warning that subconsciously, I was already trying to minimize my losses, like a part of me had already made up my mind how much I wanted to date this girl, and that monetary sum was somewhere between ramen and happy hour.
That was red flag number two.
So we settle on a ramen shop that’s in the area. And as I’m driving over I get a series of three texts from her almost simultaneously.
“Oh by the way, I don’t drive.”
“Can you pick me up from work? ”
“Oh and I picked up juice for my dad because he’s sick. Can we drop it off to him afterwards?”
Christ, I’m not a taxi cab. Again, I should’ve trusted my gut. Because instead of feeling like I was given the opportunity to curry favor with my potential future father-in-law, I’m feeling irritated and used. I google her work place, and it’s two blocks from the ramen shop. How hard is it to walk two blocks? Wait what’s that guts? More foreshadowing of the impending doom to come?
That was red flag number three.
So I get to her work place, and inside are two male patrons, and a girl behind the counter and another girl leaning on the counter from the opposite side. It’s in these first few seconds, I realize– I’ve been duped.
– – – –
Now I will be the first to admit that my profile pictures on these dating sites show me in the most advantageous light. It’s the picture where my hair looks awesome, and my chin looks chiseled, and for some reason my biceps look extremely ripped like I was lugging telephone poles around all day. It’s the picture where I’m at the top of a mountain, or skydiving, or surrounded by a bunch of friends. But in truth, I’m not that muscular, I hike infrequently, I’ve been skydiving twice and I screamed like a girl the first time (and most of the second time too), and I don’t really hang out with people that often because… well I’m an insufferable dick. My profile pictures are a glossy, hyper-saturated representation of my life, but for the most part that is me. If you see me walking down the street, and someone where to show you my profile picture, you would recognize that it was clearly me.
I will also be the first to admit, I’m a shallow person. I know what type of girl I find physically attractive, and I know what type of girl I find physically un-attractive. The media has attempted to guilt men into believing liking one type of shape over another is somehow a form of shameful discrimination, but honestly it’s like getting mad at someone for saying their favorite ice cream is mint chocolate chip instead of rocky road. You can’t argue or reason why you like one more than the other… you just do. And in the grand scheme of things there are people who really love themselves some rocky road, so by all means more for them. As for me, I know what I like and I know what I don’t like– and I like mint chocolate chip.
But… what I got was a gallon tub of cookie dough, with a bunch of red warning flags sticking out the top like she was a double black diamond ski slope.
Looking back, her first few profile pictures were strategically cropped photos of just her face and cleavage, so I already knew she was a bigger girl coming in to this. But her third or fourth picture was a slightly out of focus shot of all of her her doing some sort of cheerleader-esque pose in a t-shirt and shorts. Not quite big, more like Penny from Big Bang Theory when she puffed up a bit in the later seasons. (which coincidentally, is how I figure out how far along into the series I am when I’m catching a random episode) That’s who I was expecting to meet today. In retrospect, that was probably an old high school or college photo, at least five years and fifty pounds ago.
You lied. That’s my first thought. I’m not angry that she’s big, I’m angry that what little information I know about this girl, has been falsified. That picture was you at some point, but it’s definitely not you now. You know what you look like. You see you in the mirror every day, and that picture, is – not – you. That little picture, that little blurb… it’s the twist of the truth; it’s an omission and misrepresentation of facts. I’m reminded of the days of picture brides, where middle aged women would send a picture of themselves in high school, but by the time they arrived, “ha ha too late Husband, I already here.” I’ve been tricked.
I lock eyes with her. She looks away and busies herself.
“Hi” I say.
“Hi.” she says back.
And I stand there awkwardly. At this point I’m already committed to the date. I said I would do it so I’m going to do it, pride, wallet, time, and happiness be damned. She makes no effort to continue the conversation, and resumes talking with the girl across the counter.
So I walk five feet off and flop down in a chair by the door, fumbling with my phone absently. Maybe she’s busy. Time passes, and I’m stuck sitting in this chair ever aware of each passing second and the growing discomfort in my guts. What else has she been dishonest about? What else will she be dishonest about? “daddy’ is just the nickname of my drug dealer, and ‘juice’ is what we call our meth, you didn’t ask” or “You asked if I had AIDS, technically I only had HIV… should’ve been more specific”
I look over at her. There is so much more of her to look at than I was expecting. Am I an ass? Yes I am an ass. But still… I am an honest ass, with an ass the same size as my picture. She makes no effort to end her conversation with the girl at the counter. I stand up again, and walk over to the register. I hover there awkwardly, like a fourth grader trying to find the right moment to interrupt the teacher from correcting papers at her desk, before returning to my seat unacknowledged yet again. I’m still willing to bite the bullet and take her out for some food and chock it up to poor reconnaissance on my part. All she had to do was say something. Just make some eye contact– something!
I saunter back to my chair. It’s at this point my guts I’ve been suppressing all this time, begin to take over. Like a trapped animal, the fight or flight instinct begins to take over me. Maybe I can pretend like I didn’t see her in there, because I was looking for a girl half her size like in her pictures. Ha ha. Yeah that’s fucked up. Is it? But if I had told her I was 8′ 2″ and she didn’t see me because I’m actually 5’7″, that would be the same thing right? All I want to do is not be here, not in this uncomfortable awkward situation with this person I am beginning to resent more with each passing second. Maybe tell her I’m sick? Tell her something came up? A family emergency? I don’t want to drive extra to give her dad juice, or meth, or whatever it is.
And then a turning point.
…I don’t need to spend the next hour talking to someone that I already don’t like.
So I stood up, and I walked out.
And that might’ve been the worst thing I’ve ever done on a date. And I’m pretty sure the Universe will be punishing me soon.
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