Worst Date Ever: Chick Edition
A friend of
mine—a text book lesbian stereotype who surrounded herself with exes and liked
to recycle them when there were no other options—used to give me constant grief
over never having a date, and never really wanting one. She had a gaggle of friends who all thought I
was the bee’s knees, but I steered clear.
Because: a) she’d already slept with
them all, and b) I mostly hate lesbians.
But needing a
change and feeling like I should dip my toe into the incestuous Sapphic waters—if
anything just for the story—I caved and let her set me up on a blind-ish date.
I’d seen
this girl only briefly once. I wasn’t
immediately attracted to her, but that never stopped me from getting to know
someone better. She was also femme,
which isn’t usually my first choice for anything other than recreational
bedding. But she was from New Zealand so
I thought that might be of some interest.
Anyway, a few texts and phone calls happened, and by the time date night
came around I was already bored. I did
the whole “let’s meet at happy hour on a weeknight” kinda thing so I didn’t
have to put much effort into my look and could just roll up in my version of
business casual.
We met at a
Mexican restaurant. I was ready for a
gigantic salty margarita, but she ordered a Diet Coke so I followed her lead, even
though I would have gouged her eyes out for a cocktail. (I might be a dick but I do have dinner
manners.) I ordered a typical plate of
Mexican cheese goo. And she ordered one
enchilada. And then proceeded to tell me
that she’d recently had lap band surgery—which if you’re not familiar is a
weight loss surgery that involves tying off the stomach with a band. There’s also some sort of balloon thing
involved. I know this because every
detail was explained to me. During
DINNER. A dinner of Mexican food. Which always looks like someone already ate
it.
She explained
that she shouldn’t be drinking soda. She
explained that she couldn’t even eat and drink at the same time. She explained she shouldn’t have spicy food,
that even the one enchilada would be too much for her. And then she told me that just a couple days
before she’d had her balloon expanded.
Then she pulled up her shirt. At
the table. To show me that you could see
the “device” under her skin. And for the
next hour or so she went on about New Zealand, her ex-husband, her
ex-girlfriend, her nursing scrubs. But I
couldn’t pay attention to any of that. I just stared down at her tiny nibbled
enchilada. I would’ve blown the first
INS agent that walked in just to get out of there.
The night
finally came to a merciful end. I’m
pretty sure I picked up the check as consolation for the ghosting she was about
to experience. She walked me to the
corner and offered to walk me to my car.
I lied about where it was and made no attempt to pretend I cared if she
made it to hers. An awkward hug followed—I
(obviously) avoided full body contact.
And as if all that wasn’t sign enough, I had to give her the side of my
head when she moved in to kiss me.
A day or two
of texts and voicemails followed—all unanswered, and I never heard the end of
it from my friend. Who, by the way, I
hear is now dating my little Kiwi all these years later. May their bands never tarnish…
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