An Awkward First Date-A True Story

Thought I’d share this…I was extremely depressed at the time, suicidal even. But mostly I wrote this for fun.

The following is a short story I wrote just for fun. It’s a true story and it’s about myself. If you’re bored, go ahead and take a look. I think that if you’ve ever tried online dating you’ll be able to relate. This is sometimes how it feels…

I’m not used to this kinda thing, you know. Not at all. I’m pretty nervous, in fact. I’m nervous because she lives in Bolingbrook and I live in Chicago, and I’m meeting her for the first time at her house.

I’m not that experienced when it comes to dating. I’m like that band geek guy who spills shit and makes a fool of himself when good-looking women are nearby. Or I’ll ask a pretty girl if I can tell her a joke only to forget the joke, and then embarrassingly ask for her number right after. Not very smooth.

I’m a homebody, too. I don’t go out very often. Not unless I’m going to work or to a buddy’s house, at least. I’d go to bars, but I’m only 19, and while I could probably get into to some bars and order a drink, I’m too introverted to try. I’m too depressed to go out and try something semi-daring like that. I hardly even drink, anyway. Up until last week I was under the assumption that a “Four Loco” was some sort of salsa dance that made people dizzy. I’m out of the loop.

I guess that’s what brings me here to this circumstance. I’m in my red Chevy Monte Carlo on I-55 on my way to Bolingbrook to meet a woman whom I’ve never met before. We met on Facebook. I was playing some Facebook game, Farmtown, I think, and needed to add some people to my “group” or whatever, so I just randomly added this girl, along with several others, and we began talking one day. It turns out that she lives nearby, in Bolingbrook. I’m coming from the south side of Chicago, only about 25 minutes away if traffic is light. But why exactly I’m going to see her I’m not quite sure.

Like I said, I’m a homebody, and I’m depressed. I go to work, drive around at night listening to music, and that’s about the gist of my routine, if you will. I can’t say I do much more than that, really, other than the occassional video game night at a buddy’s house. I’m lonelier than Waldo, except no one’s looking for me. I’m all alone, and the only way I’m going to remedy that is by meeting more people. I might as well start by meeting this girl.

Still, I realize that my “success” with this encounter is likely to be a disaster. I know how I am. Yes, I’m depressed, but I’m also kind of a quiet guy, too. I don’t have much to talk about. What the hell am I gonna talk about with this girl when we finally come face to face? The highlight of my week was hearing some lady in a Walmart yell at her daughter and call her a “slut monkey.” It was funny, but not exactly the kind of thing you share with a stranger, and certainly not on a first date. You kinda wanna avoid the word “slut” on a first date. But that really happened, and I thought it was hilarious, so maybe I’ll talk about it. But how sad it is that that’s the only thing I can think of right now to share.

She’s 26, and freshly divorced. A red flag? Maybe, but I’m too naive and inexperienced at 19 to consider that. And maybe I’m a little desperate too, if only for another friend. But the truth is that there’s a 7 year gap between us, and I’ve never been married before as she had.

I saw her photos on Facebook and she looks reasonably attractive. She’s not “hot” but she looks okay. Beats the shit outa me why she’s interested in me, though. I look horrible in pictures. I’m the kind of person who always looks better in person. That’s a good thing, I guess. But it counts as a handicap when it comes to online dating, because I can’t take a picture worth a fuck. I have too many breakouts and my side burns are more like mutton chops. I look like a half-ass werewolf with acne. Ha, that’d be a nice headline for my future dating profile, should I make one. “I’m a half-ass werewolf with acne…Oh, and I know how to change a tire, if that counts for anything.”

Mixing me with attractive women is like baptizing a cat. Sort of a “good luck, but don’t expect it” scenerio. Why should this encounter be any different?

I conclude that I’m driving to meet her for the experience of it, nothing more. I’d never met anyone from online before, and I’m a little nervous about it. Sure, I’m nervous because it’s a date, but moreso because I don’t really know what the hell I’m getting myself into. Why did I even agree to meet her at her house? Why didn’t I insist that we meet at a public place, like a Starbucks, or hell, even a Chuck E Cheese for Christ’s sake? That would be safer, at least. But I’m a black belt, I remind myself, as if that counts for anything when you face a loaded gun. What if when I arrive she holds me for ransom at gunpoint? Or what if she’s not actually real? What if she’s some dirty, bearded, homosexual mountain man who wants to abuse me? Hey, I’ve got nothing against homosexuals. I don’t care if someone is homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual, trisexual, or whatever, but I’m coming to this house expecting to meet Cara, the girl I know from Facebook.

We talked on the phone a couple of times, if that counts for anything. That must mean that she’s real, right? But then I think of all the horror stories I’ve heard of people meeting strangers at their houses. Is that what awaits me?

As I near her house, just a matter of blocks away, I get a nice gut-wrenching feeling about my soon-to-be interaction. I’m such a miserable fuck. She’s gonna be able to tell that something is wrong, but how I wish that she’ll understand that it’s me, and not her. “This is how I am, Cara. It’s not you. I’m sorry.”

I pull up in front of the house the GPS says is hers. I give her a ring and tell her I’ve arrived. She sounds friendly and excited, and invites me to meet her at the front door. I step out of the car, take one last look at myself through the reflection of my tinted windows, and brace myself for stepping out of my comfort zone. I proceed toward the house and make my way up the stairs to the top of the stoop.

There she is, and oh Jesus, what a disappointment. I don’t mean to sound shallow, but I almost feel gypped because she obviously hadn’t accurately displayed herself on Facebook. She only had mugshots, not full body shots. I should’ve requested one beforehand. This is a mistake I’ll never make again.

“Hey, Cara. Great to finally see you,” I say. “Hi! Nice to see you, too. Come on in.”

Cara looks as though she swallowed a beach ball. She is huge. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I think to myself.

We planned on seeing a movie together. I’m supposed to drive us to Hollywood Boulevard, or whatever the hell the name of the theatre is, and we’re supposed to watch Sherlock Holmes. But I’m sorely disappointed with her physical appearance, and I no longer want to go through with this date. What should I do? Should I excuse myself? Should I tell her how I feel? Should I make my phone ring and come up with some bullshit to get out of here? Weak, and inexperienced, I keep my mouth shut and decide to go through with the date. What, indeed, have I gotten myself into?

We sit in the kitchen and talk a bit. I mostly spend my time listening, all the while thinking of a graceful way to excuse myself. I notice the absence of furniture and all the many filled boxes throughout the house. “What’s with all the boxes?” I ask. “Oh, well that’s all my ex-husband’s shit. He’s still not fully moved out yet.” “Oh, okay.” She proceeds to tell me the nature of her divorce and I listen as if I’m especially interested. I nod much of the time and throw in a few yeah’s when appropriate.

About 15 minutes go by before I decide that I’ve had enough of the conversation. I want to get the night over with. “Alright, well I think Sherlock Holmes is playing at 8:30, last time I checked, so we should probably get going soon,” I say. “Okay, sure. Let me get my purse and we’ll go. You wanna drive?” “Yes,” I reply. I figure I can always ditch her at the theatre if the date is really that insufferable. I’m such a shit…

As she gathers her things and collects her purse from the kitchen chair the front door bursts open and three full-grown men walk in. “Oh, shit. What the hell is this?” I think.

“Frank, what are you doing here right now?” Cara says to one of the men. “Just figured I’d pick some more stuff up after work,” he replies. At that moment I gathered that Frank was her ex-husband. And here he was, this full-grown man, probably 30-something, seeing me, this 19-year old kid, in his ex-wife’s house. I gulp and get a little warm as I anticipate a confrontation between the two of us. “You can have her!” I think of shouting. “I-I don’t even think she’s attractive! I’ll go!” Maybe this was the “out” I was looking for.      Frank walks toward me and I take two steps toward him and put my right hand out. “Hey, I’m Frank. Who the fuck are you?” he says. “Uh, I’m Tom.” We shake hands. He has a very firm handshake and stares me in the eyes. “Nice to meet you, Tom.” Our hands separate and he walks toward some of the filled boxes that line the living room wall. He and his two friends pick up some of the boxes and make their way back to the car.

“Alright, so uh, ready to go?” I say, awkwardly. “Yep.” Cara leads the way out the front door and we make our way to my car, watching as Frank and his friends go back into the house for another round of moving. As I close my driver door I let out a big sigh. I was relieved that that handshake was the extent of me and Frank’s physical interaction, but I acted as though the sigh was from fatigue.

…

We sit in the movie theatre, watching as the stupid commercials play before the movie. One of the commercials is that dumb talking panda who tells us to turn off our phones before the start of the movie. “It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that it’s a little hard to concentrate with someone’s phone going a ring a ding ding,” I think. No one ever pays attention to that Panda, anyway. There’s still always noise.

I’m at least impressed with the ambiance of the theatre. It’s a classy place, I conclude. I’d never been here before, but I’m genuinely impressed. Our chairs have wheels on the bottom and recline. They’re nice leather seats. Also, just a few minutes earlier, some well-dressed young man gave me a menu and asked if I’d like to order anything. Impressed, and curious, I ordered chicken fingers. Cara orders a big slurpree and a big bag of pop corn. What a surprise…And at my expense, of course. But to be fair, I did agree to this date. I should be a gentleman and pay for her meal as I did her ticket, and at least try to look somewhat interested in the activity.

The movie starts and I watch a good 30 minutes of it, semi-interested, all the while eating my food. I giggle a little, thinking of telling Cara about the slut monkey story. I figure I never plan on seeing her again anyway, so why not? But the thought leaves me, and I slowly drift to sleep, reclining in my comfortable leather chair.

“Hey, wake up! Wake up!” I feel a gentle nudge on my right shoulder. I open my eyes and look around. I look at Cara and then at the movie screen and see the credits playing. “Oh, shit,” I say, without thinking. “You ready to go?” I add. She nods, sort of disppointedly, and we make our way out of the theatre.      There’s an awkward silence as we make our way back to her house. I keep wondering if Frank is still there with his buddies, and hope that he’s not. Cara chimes in every so often, if only to break the silence. I give her short and simple responses. The only thing on my mind is getting her home so that I can get this date the hell over with.

Finally, we arrive at her house. “You’re welcome to come in for a bit if you’d like. And maybe…spend the night?” she asks. I’m shocked, although I don’t show it. I was such an ass the entire evening, and yet she’s willing to spend more time with me? It doesn’t even occur to me the obvious implication she’d made of “spending the night.” Uninterested and eager to leave, I respectfully decline. “I’m so tired,” I say. In truth, I am tired. But that’s not at all the reason for my response, of course.      We give each other a half-ass hug in the car before she gets out and makes her way up the stairs. Perhaps I should’ve walked her to the door, but I’m too tired and uninterested to be chivalrous at the moment. It’s done. Let me bask in the glory of it finally being done.

I make my way home and reflect on my evening. “What the fuck did I get myself into?” I say aloud, shaking my head. But I remind myself that I did it for the experience of it. I did it to hopefully be more comfortable with future dates.

And that’s my story. That’s 1 unique day of my 19th year in this world. Here I sit, 25 years old, laughing and writing about an awkward date that took place 6 years ago. But it was, in fact, an experience. A good one to have.