Hello Thursday! Meet my blog group, comprised of a fantastic group of ladies who will dazzle you with insight on various topics. After reading my post, check out their blogs as well. Just click on:
Froggie (Tracey): One frog’s distinct voice on the world around her.
Merry Land Girl (Melissa): Tales of a suburban mom who likes to talk about pop culture, books, Judaism, family, friendship and anything else that comes to mind.
Good Vibrations (Jeanette): One woman’s view on love, life, and everything in between.
For this week, Jeanette chose: The worst date you’ve ever been on.
Leading up to the worst. date. ever., I need to give you all a little back story. See, this was a crush years in the making. I was just an innocent sweet thang, when A and I were freshman in high school. He was a cute baseball player, and I felt those first initial teenage stirrings of attraction and lust. It was the way his butt looked in uniform, I kid you not. The rest of him wasn’t half-bad, either.
The rest of high school played out like a lame game of cat and mouse. When I wanted A, he was repulsed by me. When A wanted me, I feigned coyness. There were obsessive moments, to the chagrin of my classmates and closest friends. I was constantly stalking A. How obnoxious. I chalk it up to being young and dumb, and he was smokin’ hot in a tall, clean-cut, sweet boy way. I really had a thing for the preppies back then.
After high school, A and I decided to try something foreign: date one another. A real commitment. By this time, he’d replaced his short brown hair for bleached out blonde, and his preppy clothes for grunge. Lucky for him, I was into that sort of thing, a self-professed Nirvana fan. He was an artist, a free spirit who didn’t live by society’s rules, writing poems that set my soul on fire while expertly strumming his guitar. I tried to overlook the way he’d always beg me to pay for his smokes, or the way he’d bum for car rides all the time. He only wanted to see me when it was convenient for him (smokes and car rides). Or food. Or weed. I was his sugar momma, but I was happy that we’d finally decided to hook up, so I kept my mouth shut about the things that irritated me.
Our date from hell was a blessing in disguise, really. We were shopping at a pseudo Super Target and A was in heaven. He had a psychopathic fascination with toys. Yes, he was 19, and playing with G.I. Joes and the like. When I would see the pleasure in his eyes while holding an action figure, I chose those moments to put the rose-colored glasses on and smile serenely. He’s adorable. However, stealing action figures? A bit much. The toys went down the laundry chute of his Levi’s, and I watched in shock and awe. Was this guy really stealing from the store? Was this soon-to-be grown man actually ganking toys?
I drew the line at being an accomplice. When he begged me to stash the goods in my purse, I started to back away, slowly. He continued to shove as much of the merchandise as he could in pockets, his sweatshirt, anywhere he could find the space. I stepped further and further away, and it suddenly dawned on me. I’m dating a loser. It wasn’t just the stealing. He was jobless. He expected that I would pay his way for everything. He had no ambitions. And he stunk. When was the last time he’d had a shower?
What the hell was I doing?
I left the store. I never even said goodbye. I decided he’d find his own way home, and I drove off into the sunset, seriously dodging a bullet.
Roughly a month later, I ran into A at the local grocery store. He was standing in the pasta aisle, pondering the Mac and Cheese boxes. I had turned down the same aisle (nothing better than Mac and Cheese with hot dogs, try it sometime) and didn’t have time to back away before he spotted me. He looked the same- disheveled and haunted. To think I’d pinned him as an “artist”. He was no artist. Even artists brush their teeth. No, A just wanted a free ride through life, and upon seeing me, he extended his arms out as though anticipating I’d run into them, giving him a hug. I rolled my eyes and walked away.