100 Bad Dates: #1

In this the final installment of 100 Bad Dates (yes, I know, SIGH), we get a glimpse of how this whole roller coaster started…

Date #1 was me. Oh, you didn’t think I knew that no one could go on 100 bad dates without being a bad date herself, sometimes? I DO possess at least a modicum of self-awareness. But I also come standard with years of baggage, a tendency toward clumsiness, a low tolerance for alcohol, and a fairly serious case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I’m pretty much a bad date waiting to happen.

For instance, on one date I was convinced to sneak in to the building where that date worked to use the executive gym after hours. Lounging in the uncomfortably hot jacuzzi, I heard footsteps and insisted to my date that we weren’t alone in the building, like we had thought. Dripping and panicking, we grabbed our clothes and headed toward the back stairs. As we entered the stairwell, the cold air hit me like a punch in the face, making me lightheaded. So lightheaded that I lost my wet footing on the concrete stairs and tumbled ass-over-teakettle down to the next landing. Clothes went flying, I went flying, and we landed in a heap. Me, scraped and bleeding, with my bathing suit pushed aside to show my goods to god and everybody. My date sighed, apparently NOT charmed by my clumsiness, picked up my clothes and me, and hustled us out the door. When we got outside, his car was the only one in the parking lot. I shrugged and said, “Guess I imagined the noise” as I bled on his tan seats. He dropped my off at my house so I could nurse the wounds to my body and pride. Needless to say, he never called me again.

On another date, he, his brother, his brother’s wife, and I headed 20 minutes south of my hometown to Tijuana, Mexico. Crossing the border with the intent to drink as much as possible? Great idea! I succeeded in my quest, but not without taking off my top in some sort of drunken exchange with a street vendor for a hot dog wrapped in bacon. (What, you’ve never shown your tits for breakfast meat? Well, then you really haven’t lived.) In a turn of events surprising to exactly no one, I threw up the pork-wrapped pork soon after. In my date’s brother’s car. A year later, I would run into this date at a wedding where he would share the story with everyone in the wedding party.

On yet another date, I dropped acid (the only illicit drug I have ever experienced) at a house party, at the insistence of some of my date’s friends, and promptly freaked out. Highlights included psychotic screaming for over an hour, smashing a framed Norman Rockwell print with a baseball bat (Because it dared me to. The painting. It dared me.), and vomiting in three rooms of a stranger’s house, none of which were the bathroom. After lying down for the next three hours, sobbing and hugging a giant stuffed bear (which turned out to be the host’s Husky which was alive and well and, seemingly, sensitive to my situation because I swear to you he never moved), I was asked to leave and never come back. My date also requested I lose his number and, frankly, my embarrassment and my need to never see that horrified expression on his face again would have guaranteed that anyway.

Oh, and I can’t forget the date of sushi and sake which, although delicious together, teamed up to try to murder me from the inside. After dinner, my date took me to a movie, during which my tummy was making noises so embarrassing that I had to excuse myself. When I got to the lobby bathroom, the painted on jeans I was wearing suddenly became the worst decision I had ever made and I didn’t get them down in time. A total mess, I frantically called a friend to bring me some pants. She did, but they didn’t look anything like the pants I had been wearing. Plus, I had to ditch my dirty clothes in the restroom trash can (which was completely disgusting but unavoidable). How my date didn’t notice that I went from wearing jeans to black pants, I’ll never know. Chalk it up to men being a little less detail-oriented. Also, if he ever noticed I was gone for a third of the movie, he didn’t mention it.

Yes, my guess is that every one of my bad dates has a story about me, too, and I hope they are telling it. After all, without bad dates, how would we know the good ones? Besides, we are nothing without our stories.

A note from the author:

Hey, Friends.

This is the last entry in the 100 Bad Dates diary for a while. The column is being retooled, repackaged, and re-awesomed for brand-new opportunities so stay tuned for for news about that. I hope you’ve enjoyed this sneak peek at it and I’m thankful to have had your input which has helped me, greatly.

As for my future with RVANews, things are a’ brewin’ and you will be hearing from me again soon.

So Much Love,

  • error

    Report an error

The Checkout Girl

The Checkout Girl is Jennifer Lemons. She’s a storyteller, comedian, and musician. If you don’t see her sitting behind her laptop, check the streets of Richmond for a dark-haired girl with a big smile running very, very slowly.

There are 19 reader comments. Read them.