The hubs and I were trading worst date stories last night, and I thought I’d share mine with you because I know you were just sitting there thinking, I wonder what Emily’s worst date was? Admit it. You’re consumed with thoughts like this. What’s her favorite kind of frosting? What color toenail polish is she wearing today? If she could own as many cats as she wanted, how many would that be? Boxers or briefs? Well, dear friends, I like to leave a little to the imagination, so today you will just hear the story of my worst date ever. I promise you that this is in no way embellished. I apologize in advance for the cringing you’re about to do.
I used to be an actress. Which is actually how S and I met, but that’s another story. I went on a call from a photographer that needed people to pose for portraits for a show or something, and we chatted while he clicked away, and I dug his British accent. When he asked me out, I said yes. So we agreed that I’d come by his place the next day and go to the movies from there. I showed up and knocked on the door, and when he opened it, I smelled something burnt and the whole room was smoky. I asked if everything was okay and he said, “Uh yeah, I tried to dry my socks in the microwave and they caught fire.” Um, okay… We leave his place and go outside and it turns out that he doesn’t own a car, just a bicycle, and the movies are a good 15 minute drive, so I, of course, agree to drive (this was in FL where there wasn’t anything resembling a metro or anything). We get to the movie theatre, and he goes up to the ticket booth and buys a ticket for himself. Just himself. Now, I don’t expect a guy to pay for me, but I expect a guy to offer to pay for me and let me pay for myself when I insist it isn’t necessary. But whatever, that’s fine. We see the movie and then wander around the plaza a little, and he says, “let’s grab a coffee” as we pass a coffee shop. Sure thing. So we go in and I order, and then he orders, and then he just stands there until I pay for both of us. Um, that’s a little less fine. We head back to the car and I drive him home and he invites me in. I felt a little awkward but thought, what the hell. I’d been single too long. As soon as we get inside, his phone rings, and it’s his soon-to-be ex-wife. Gulp. He pops in some movie he’s “distributing” for me to watch and goes into the other room to have a 45 minute screamfest about how he is too allowed to go on a bloody date because they’re getting divorced, damnit, and stop smothering him, damnit, and she’s (she, being me) not a whore, damnit, and stop being a bloody bore, damnit. Double gulp. And what’s worse is that, while I’m listening to all of this, I’m watching what has to be one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. Throughout this whole ordeal, he keeps popping his head back into the room (which still smells like burnt socks, by the way) to say it’ll just be another minute. When I heard him say, “No you bloody well will not come over here,” I finally just left without even saying goodbye. When I got home, I got an instant message from him saying, and I quote, “sorry about that bloody bitch what are you wearing do you own stockings.” Special. I did not reply. About 3 months later he emails and says that the divorce is finally settled and he’s free now and he’d love to know if I own stockings. Really special.
So that’s my worst date, internet. Unless you prove otherwise, I think I win. Oh, and on a totally unrelated note, this exists.
I just thought you should know.