Fifty crap dates


How many crap dates is one too many? I don’t know what number crap date I had last week, but it was probably in the vicinity of around 50, and it was crapola enough for me to give up on the idea altogether. That’s right. I have surrendered to the universe and committed to a life of spinsterdom and possibly even celibacy. When I am 70, I will probably need an operation for vulva fusion (look it up).

A few weeks ago, I got talking to a bloke at my favourite bar one Friday night. We hung out for a bit, listened to the very cool music, then it was time for me to go home because if I stay out too late, the hangovers are just too brutal, and the whole exercise is seriously not worth it. We swapped numbers, sent a couple of texts back and forth, then decided to catch up for a drink after work.

I must admit I was in two minds about even going, because fresh out of a relationship that I thought had great potential, but ended up being a big waste of time and space, I couldn’t really face going through the “getting to know someone” again so soon. Plus it is winter and I could just picture myself nice and warm on the couch under a blankie watching the Olympics instead.

But, ever the terminal optimist, I trotted down the road, joking to my housemate that if I was back in half an hour, well, it didn’t go very well. He was a few minutes late, which didn’t bother me. We made small talk for 10 minutes, which seemed to go reasonably well in my opinion, then he dropped the: I’m not really interested in dating you but thought I’d pop down and tell you that in person. My facial expression, if only I could’ve seen it, must have been priceless and I sat there for a minute or two in silence until I said: Couldn’t you have just text me that?

He replied: Well, I wanted to do the right thing? To which I said: I don’t even know you. Why didn’t you just call the date off, or not even agree to it in the first place, and then I could still be at home watching the telly? He seemed confused. Not as much as I was at the time, mind you. “Why bother going on a date with someone if you are not interested in actually going on a date with them?” I asked him. “Why waste your, and more importantly my, time?” If he had looked like Ryan Gosling, I would have been disappointed. He didn’t. The whole thing lasted about 15 minutes.

My reaction to his (blatant error of) judgment that I wasn’t worth dating, but he wanted to tell me that when we were actually on a date, has a lot to do with the many, many crap dates I have endured over the past two years. One guy – back in the dark desperate days of internet dating – was actually about 25 years older than his photo and had a limp. Another, drank 10 Crown lagers on our first date while I had a soda and lime, which is unusual I know, and then asked if we could split the bill. Another I had drunkenly swapped numbers with (always a bad idea – I must stop doing this) sent me a pic of his erect penis the first time he ever text me anything at all. It was quite impressive I must say, but not impressive enough to not delete his contact from my phone – after I showed all of my gay friends the pic of course.

Crap dates, yep, I’ve certainly had a few. So many in fact that I say: Enough.


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