the lost boys

Okay, the torch has been passed, and I'm answering the call to talk about my Worst Bad Date Ever. But let the record show that I'm doing so with a certain sense of trepidation, because unlike some of you guys, my next worst date could end up being next Tuesday. That's enough to wipe that snarky smile right off my face.

Here's the funny thing. Despite having encountered my fair share of losers, psychopaths, and gender changers, I could conjure up some crappy moments, but not one spectacularly horrible evening-long memory. I consulted the Jens.

Me: What was my worst date ever?
Elusive Jen: Ummm...
Me: I mean, there've been some real wackos, but...
EJ: I know. Nothing jumps out.

Me: What was my Worst. Date. EVER?
Party Jen: Ummm...
Me: I know.
PJ: Wait. WHY?

Yeah, the Same Namers were no help. That's okay, though; I shouldn't actually be relying on friends to store my memories. So, here are some snapshots. Read them and weep.

There was The Face Chaser, who defied logic. He went in for the kiss, I backed away, and he CAME AFTER ME. Not aggressively, just persistently, as though I had slipped backwards and he was simply compensating for the sudden distance between us. I don't know how someone rejecting your mouth could inspire you to travel to reach it. I'll never understand. Hence his nickname, which Connecticut and I invented before I'd even made it home. One of the few times having a cell phone came in handy.

There was Random Conversation Guy. He was my first blind date, and he suggested that we meet first in the bar of the restaurant and then "figure out dinner." As in, decide if I'm worthy of eating food with. Way to make it feel like a rose ceremony. Praise God, I made the cut, and we had the opportunity to dine together. He was nice enough, but from that day on he peppered me with random thoughts about a special he saw on volcanoes and offered me some weird friends and family deal from his bank. What?

There was Married Guy, who may have been fine if he was Used to be Married Guy, but he ended up being Still Very Much Married Guy. They had just separated the week before. And he talked all about how much she pissed him off. And that was the end of that story.

In college, I finally ended things with the Gender Changer by plagiarizing a line from Vineyard by Jackopierce because it was one of my favorite songs at the time, but that was more lazy break-upping than bad dating.

There was Blam! Ahh, Blam. To be fair, he wasn't all bad, just wasn't for me. But the way that I met him is priceless. I'm a little off topic, but it's worth it.

A few years ago, the Bride was single, which was a huge affliction that her family was trying desperately to cure her of. The Bride is also 6'1", so needless to say she wanted to meet a tall guy. Because of this, her mom had told her about a delightful organization called the Tall Club. It actually has a more cutesy name, but I'd be afraid those giraffes would sue me. So it turned out this Tall Club had meet-and-greets at a local bar one night a month. Of course, I was on board about a milisecond after hearing about this. I think my response went something like this: "TALL CLUB? We are SO GOING!" I proceeded to tell everyone that I was attending a gathering of the Tall Club. We went, met some nice people, and I was short for the first time in my life. I was also told that, while I seemed nice and all, I would not be permitted to join the Tall Club, but I could attend any events that I wanted so long as I was accompanied by someone who met the height requirements. They also told me they were having a big fancy Tall Dance in a big fancy hotel a few weeks from then. A tall prom! I was ecstatic, but of course I needed the Bride to get in. I tried to reason with her: "It will be SO GREAT! We'll get all dressed up and dance with tall people and I WANT TO GO!"

So we went. I dragged Elusive Jen along too, who is taller than me but still too short to get into the club. That place is like the Mensa society... few members, many hanger-ons. Anyway, we got gussied up, we went, and we were about ten years younger than everyone else there.

A guy we had met at the bar meet-and-greet asked me to dance. I politely declined, pointing out there was no one on the dance floor yet. The next time he asked, I felt like saying no would make me kind of mean. Short and mean. So I danced with him. On an empty dance floor. To Celebration. By Kool and the Gang.

I KNOW.

Trust me. I KNOW.

Anyway, the guy I ended up meeting later on was in his 30s, really nice, and still could boast the distinction of having made me the best grilled steak I've ever had in my life, which is quite a feat considering I don't always like steak. I think of him every summer when I try to figure out what the hell he did to make it so good, and then proceed to fail miserably. There was an interesting moment when I was at his house a couple dates later and commented on a picture of a cute boy in his bedroom that I fully expected was his nephew; turns out it was his son. His 11-year-old son. I found myself figuring out who I was closer to in age. Guess who won? Anyway, he earned his name for something that he said in the e-mail where I tried to blow him off (not because of his son, but dating someone with a kid whose age is in the double digits is a little overwhelming when you're barely legal to drink). He responded and said something like, "Well, let me know if you want to try to get together next week, because after that we're BLAM! right into next month." What can I say? He walked right into his own nickname.

There are more, of course, but I think I've recalled enough disturbing crap for one day.