Sadly the most noteworthy thing, the thing that you would not believe about the next guy to grace my extreme dating diary, is something I can’t reveal. I’ve been avoiding using guys’ real names which is a real shame as the guy after the two professors named Mike* had the most awesome of names. His name sounds like he should be a mild mannered grad student by day and then hop into a phone booth, change into some tights and a cape, and go about fighting crime, leaping over tall buildings, and wooing women with a single, smoldering glance.
I’m trying to think of a similar name to give him in this post, one that truly reflects the awesomeness of his real name, but I’m falling short. For now, I’ll call him J. Frisco Blingtime* or Frisco* for short. Frisco* was yet another date where I’m not really sure what went wrong. We met up for coffee one day after I got off work and he finished with classes; he’s in the middle of getting his PhD in economics. Frisco* was a total cutie; average height runner with adorable reddish blond hair, aqua eyes, teeth so white it almost hurt my eyes….crap, the guy even had a dimple! Plus he could talk – he was smart and interesting. We talked for almost two hours over a cup of coffee. He’s lived all over the place and had really interesting stories. He did have pictures of himself in his profile with his two cats, which a friend thought was strange, but I was so far gone that even seemed cute to me.
I knew though, at the end of the date, that there was not going to be another. He walked me to my car and said he had fun talking with me, gave me a hug, but left me with no indication that he wanted to meet up later. It was entirely civil but definitely not leaving the door open for another date. For a few days I wondered what I had said wrong or if the pants I were did not adequately disguise the junk in my trunk, but eventually I decided to stop beating myself up as maybe he just wasn’t feeling any spark-type feelings. At least he didn’t do the “it was so nice meeting you and I’ll call you and we’ll go out again” routine; that has grown beyond old.
After Frisco* I had a similar experience with Joe.* I met Joe* for a couple of beers one night. There’s nothing to memorable about him but he was a decent enough guy. Joe* worked for a university and was getting his masters in sociology. He wasn’t as cute as Frisco* but he wasn’t too shabby. We shared a good, but not great, conversation and he introduced me to a new pub with nice microbrews so I guess that’s something. I didn’t have any warm tinglys with Joe* but thought I wouldn’t mind seeing him again and since he had said he’d like to go out again, I emailed him the week after our date. By the time I emailed him, however, he had changed his mind. This time I was more annoyed than disappointed. Joe* was definitely not superhero material.
Well, friends, if I don’t get off my butt and join another crazed dating site or scheme, my next post might be my last for a while. There is a doozy of a date that I still have left to share – not from a site but the blindest of blind dates possible. The current site I’m on has proved a little too hazardous; after Glen* the crazy golf date there was an even scarier one that I might share after the blind date.
*Name has been changed
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Notorious Tale of Professor Hickey
Once upon a time there was a weary, heartsick Princess who had been wandering alone for years in the land of earls of mediocrity and dukes of douchebaggery searching tirelessly…except for when she had better stuff to do like travel, yoga, bake, volunteer with her dog, drink mint juleps, go the spa, or attend roller derby bouts. The Princess had looked hither and yon for a Prince – not just any prince, but a Prince who was single, mentally balanced, intelligent, kind, with some semblance of a sense of humor, and at least minimally attractive. Also the Prince should live in his own castle and not with his mommy; or if not a castle, at least a decent apartment. Initially the Princess thought that these were reasonable qualities but after surviving date after date where at times she felt lucky to escape with her life, health, and some of her sanity, the Princess began to despair. The Princess vowed that if she met a Prince imbuing even some of the qualities she once thought not all that rare, that they would ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.
That is just a fairy tale of course; a real life happy ending for this particular Princess has not been written so succinctly or neatly.
In all my dating trials and travails, there are really two guys that I totally kick myself for not feeling all mushy about. The first was Phil*, winner of the title of nicest guy on the planet (see “Beware the Ides of March”). The second guy was the first of two professors named Mike* that I dated in 2010; henceforth he will be referred to as The Professor or Professor Hickey.
The Professor was everything I was looking for. He was tall (ok I know that wasn’t one of the qualities previously listed but after dating the Angry Midget, tall seemed good), extremely intelligent, an interesting conversationalist, funny, and attractive. He was a professor at a small college and was working on a book. Our first date flew by – there was witty repartee, lengthy discussions about numerous non-confrontational topics, and he seemed wicked normal and totally lacking a rage problem. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel any sparks or hints of attraction but it was a first date and sometimes nerves can play a part. He was a perfect gentleman, said he would like to see me again and would be calling in a few days, and then asked if it was ok if he gave me a hug.
Our next several dates took place much along the same lines. We talked on the phone and emailed, made plans to meet for dinner, movies, etc. It was all good. But it was just good. It wasn’t great. Still, I remembered all too well the sorts of guys I had been dating before and thought to myself that I was lucky to meet such a gem.
The problem was that I couldn’t be sure there was absolutely no chemistry. I couldn’t be certain because the Professor kept our dates extremely platonic. Each date ended with him saying what a great time he had, asking when he could see me again, promising to call, and then a hug or a firm handshake. While not a brazen hussy, I decided after the third date to take matters into my own hands. It seemed absurd - we had to at least kiss to see if there was ‘something’ there. So I kinda threw my head into the path of his head as he was coming in for a hug. It was not my most graceful of moments and I’m lucky I didn’t actually knock him or myself unconscious. The end result was that he almost kissed my forehead and then gave me a weird high five as we parted ways.
I’d heard of guys who think of themselves as gentlemen and try not to rush a date, but this was becoming more and more ridiculous. Did he even like me? Here I was practically assaulting him, and he gives me a high five? I was pretty sure I would never hear from him again.
But no, we went out five or six more times over the course of several weeks. He called almost every day and was beginning to get a little mushy when ending the conversation. I did not take it as a good sign when I found his endearments irritating, but figured I should resist becoming too easily annoyed and try to tough this one out. In spite of all his vocal mushiness, he remained completely platonic on our dates.
Then we went to see Avatar. I was not really in favor of seeing this movie but he had chosen some romantic chic flick and I thought that might really push my irritation factor over the edge. Avatar seemed safer. He even attempted some physical contact during the movie and held my hand. Here’s where I’m not sure exactly what happened. It was either the 3D movie or my growing aversion to his mushiness, but I became severely nauseated. I mean severely. I kept trying to wrench my hand back but he was like a vice. Then he started rubbing my hand and I had to fight not to vom.
Although I knew the feeling of wanting to vom on a date was not a good sign, I decided to press onward. Really the Professor was a great guy and I was crazy not to be interested in him. So what if we had a totally platonic relationship! It would be sort of sweet. I had already decided that I wanted to platonic-marry Paula Deen’s son just so I could have her for my mother-in-law; how would this be any different? Ok, it would not be nearly as awesome because in spite of how wonderful The Professor’s mother is, there is only one Paula.
But I digress…this brings us to a few days before I have to leave on a work trip. We’d been on countless dates with a total lack of action and that just seemed to be how things would continue until the end of time. This night, however, things turned out a little differently. I don’t know if he got jealous by the fact that at dinner my hair stylist (from Turkey, cute, straight, obscene flatterer and pursuer of tips) practically tried to make out with me when we ended up at the same restaurant or if we had just reached the magic number of dates. But when the Professor drove me home after dinner, he sort of lunged for me. It wasn’t frightening at all…just…I don’t know…not good. Very not good. The Professor was a bit older than me so I assumed he had plenty of experience in the kissing department, but what happened distinctly reminded me of junior high where the guy practically gives you a tonsillectomy because this is the first time he’s ever attempted to stick his tongue down a girl’s throat. It was a bit awkward and kind of bumpy.
And then he gave me what has got to be the most permanent and ridiculous of hickeys ever given to a woman. I firmly believe that hickeys beyond the age of 15 are just plain wrong. Even more so when you give one to a woman in her 30’s in the middle of her throat in a location that cannot be hidden by the biggest of cowl neck sweaters or the most swaddly of scarves. And it is definitely unsat when you give the hickey in such a manner that it lasts FIVE WHOLE DAYS. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. He then accidentally wrenched my grandmother’s earring out of my ear, where it became lost in his car.
So yes I became that woman, the one who goes to work with a ridiculous hickey, trying desperately to pretend it wasn’t there. For the most part, people seemed willing to go along with my delusions. This was because they would avoid asking me altogether in favor of asking my friend what the hell was on my neck. I had tried to cover it up to no avail. My sweater did no good, neither did any makeup. My niece who was living with me at the time (don’t get too worried about me corrupting a minor – she’s only seven years younger than me) said that her friend recommended holding a really cold metal spoon against the offending mark to breakup the blood cells or something. None of it worked.
And better than having to go to work the day after said hickey, the following day I had to get on a plane traveling to a climate where sweaters would be ridiculous at best. I attempted to pull off the summer scarf look but there’s only so many days in a row that you can wear a scarf in 80 degree weather without drawing more attention to yourself than what you hope is your drastically faded hickey.
This of course was how Professor Hickey got his nickname. He would have stayed in the running longer had it not been for some non-internet date-like activity that convinced me that I could not be happy settling for a platonic relationship where my neck was permanently scarred. While this little dalliance was fun for a brief time, it showed me again that not all dukes of douchebaggery are found on the internet. But in a way I was grateful, as at least I remembered that there was something out there better than awkward platonicness/feelings of nausea.
It made it somewhat impossible for me to carry on with the Professor. We attempted another go, but it didn’t work. I did manage to get back my grandmother’s earring and then quickly spurn the Professor’s advances in an unfortunate inebriated text (if he could decipher the words, the gist of the message was that he was a wonderful guy but why would he think anyone older than a junior high student would dig a hickey).
I think of The Professor now and again and wonder if I made the right decision. In spite of the hickey and the awkwardness, he was a really great guy. I’m 99% certain that I did make the right decision. I’m not 100% certain that I’ll find a guy as nice or smart or fun as him but I’m 100% certain that he’s way too good of a guy to settle for someone that’s not sure she wants to be with him. I’m 100% certain that if I have to be embarrassed by having a hickey, at least I want it to be fun receiving said blemish. And I’m 100% certain that the only platonic relationship I’ll settle for is one where I get to eat butter-laden goodness prepared by Mama Deen herself for the most grateful daughter-in-law-to-be in the world.
*Name has been changed
That is just a fairy tale of course; a real life happy ending for this particular Princess has not been written so succinctly or neatly.
In all my dating trials and travails, there are really two guys that I totally kick myself for not feeling all mushy about. The first was Phil*, winner of the title of nicest guy on the planet (see “Beware the Ides of March”). The second guy was the first of two professors named Mike* that I dated in 2010; henceforth he will be referred to as The Professor or Professor Hickey.
The Professor was everything I was looking for. He was tall (ok I know that wasn’t one of the qualities previously listed but after dating the Angry Midget, tall seemed good), extremely intelligent, an interesting conversationalist, funny, and attractive. He was a professor at a small college and was working on a book. Our first date flew by – there was witty repartee, lengthy discussions about numerous non-confrontational topics, and he seemed wicked normal and totally lacking a rage problem. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel any sparks or hints of attraction but it was a first date and sometimes nerves can play a part. He was a perfect gentleman, said he would like to see me again and would be calling in a few days, and then asked if it was ok if he gave me a hug.
Our next several dates took place much along the same lines. We talked on the phone and emailed, made plans to meet for dinner, movies, etc. It was all good. But it was just good. It wasn’t great. Still, I remembered all too well the sorts of guys I had been dating before and thought to myself that I was lucky to meet such a gem.
The problem was that I couldn’t be sure there was absolutely no chemistry. I couldn’t be certain because the Professor kept our dates extremely platonic. Each date ended with him saying what a great time he had, asking when he could see me again, promising to call, and then a hug or a firm handshake. While not a brazen hussy, I decided after the third date to take matters into my own hands. It seemed absurd - we had to at least kiss to see if there was ‘something’ there. So I kinda threw my head into the path of his head as he was coming in for a hug. It was not my most graceful of moments and I’m lucky I didn’t actually knock him or myself unconscious. The end result was that he almost kissed my forehead and then gave me a weird high five as we parted ways.
I’d heard of guys who think of themselves as gentlemen and try not to rush a date, but this was becoming more and more ridiculous. Did he even like me? Here I was practically assaulting him, and he gives me a high five? I was pretty sure I would never hear from him again.
But no, we went out five or six more times over the course of several weeks. He called almost every day and was beginning to get a little mushy when ending the conversation. I did not take it as a good sign when I found his endearments irritating, but figured I should resist becoming too easily annoyed and try to tough this one out. In spite of all his vocal mushiness, he remained completely platonic on our dates.
Then we went to see Avatar. I was not really in favor of seeing this movie but he had chosen some romantic chic flick and I thought that might really push my irritation factor over the edge. Avatar seemed safer. He even attempted some physical contact during the movie and held my hand. Here’s where I’m not sure exactly what happened. It was either the 3D movie or my growing aversion to his mushiness, but I became severely nauseated. I mean severely. I kept trying to wrench my hand back but he was like a vice. Then he started rubbing my hand and I had to fight not to vom.
Although I knew the feeling of wanting to vom on a date was not a good sign, I decided to press onward. Really the Professor was a great guy and I was crazy not to be interested in him. So what if we had a totally platonic relationship! It would be sort of sweet. I had already decided that I wanted to platonic-marry Paula Deen’s son just so I could have her for my mother-in-law; how would this be any different? Ok, it would not be nearly as awesome because in spite of how wonderful The Professor’s mother is, there is only one Paula.
But I digress…this brings us to a few days before I have to leave on a work trip. We’d been on countless dates with a total lack of action and that just seemed to be how things would continue until the end of time. This night, however, things turned out a little differently. I don’t know if he got jealous by the fact that at dinner my hair stylist (from Turkey, cute, straight, obscene flatterer and pursuer of tips) practically tried to make out with me when we ended up at the same restaurant or if we had just reached the magic number of dates. But when the Professor drove me home after dinner, he sort of lunged for me. It wasn’t frightening at all…just…I don’t know…not good. Very not good. The Professor was a bit older than me so I assumed he had plenty of experience in the kissing department, but what happened distinctly reminded me of junior high where the guy practically gives you a tonsillectomy because this is the first time he’s ever attempted to stick his tongue down a girl’s throat. It was a bit awkward and kind of bumpy.
And then he gave me what has got to be the most permanent and ridiculous of hickeys ever given to a woman. I firmly believe that hickeys beyond the age of 15 are just plain wrong. Even more so when you give one to a woman in her 30’s in the middle of her throat in a location that cannot be hidden by the biggest of cowl neck sweaters or the most swaddly of scarves. And it is definitely unsat when you give the hickey in such a manner that it lasts FIVE WHOLE DAYS. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. He then accidentally wrenched my grandmother’s earring out of my ear, where it became lost in his car.
So yes I became that woman, the one who goes to work with a ridiculous hickey, trying desperately to pretend it wasn’t there. For the most part, people seemed willing to go along with my delusions. This was because they would avoid asking me altogether in favor of asking my friend what the hell was on my neck. I had tried to cover it up to no avail. My sweater did no good, neither did any makeup. My niece who was living with me at the time (don’t get too worried about me corrupting a minor – she’s only seven years younger than me) said that her friend recommended holding a really cold metal spoon against the offending mark to breakup the blood cells or something. None of it worked.
And better than having to go to work the day after said hickey, the following day I had to get on a plane traveling to a climate where sweaters would be ridiculous at best. I attempted to pull off the summer scarf look but there’s only so many days in a row that you can wear a scarf in 80 degree weather without drawing more attention to yourself than what you hope is your drastically faded hickey.
This of course was how Professor Hickey got his nickname. He would have stayed in the running longer had it not been for some non-internet date-like activity that convinced me that I could not be happy settling for a platonic relationship where my neck was permanently scarred. While this little dalliance was fun for a brief time, it showed me again that not all dukes of douchebaggery are found on the internet. But in a way I was grateful, as at least I remembered that there was something out there better than awkward platonicness/feelings of nausea.
It made it somewhat impossible for me to carry on with the Professor. We attempted another go, but it didn’t work. I did manage to get back my grandmother’s earring and then quickly spurn the Professor’s advances in an unfortunate inebriated text (if he could decipher the words, the gist of the message was that he was a wonderful guy but why would he think anyone older than a junior high student would dig a hickey).
I think of The Professor now and again and wonder if I made the right decision. In spite of the hickey and the awkwardness, he was a really great guy. I’m 99% certain that I did make the right decision. I’m not 100% certain that I’ll find a guy as nice or smart or fun as him but I’m 100% certain that he’s way too good of a guy to settle for someone that’s not sure she wants to be with him. I’m 100% certain that if I have to be embarrassed by having a hickey, at least I want it to be fun receiving said blemish. And I’m 100% certain that the only platonic relationship I’ll settle for is one where I get to eat butter-laden goodness prepared by Mama Deen herself for the most grateful daughter-in-law-to-be in the world.
*Name has been changed
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
At Least I Got To Hit Some Balls
The notorious tale of Professor Hickey will have to wait for another evening as I have just returned from what is one of the best worst dates I’ve survived. I received an introductory email from Glen* last week. It was a longer email than most guys send, filled with questions about me and my interests, and ending with a request to meet up in “real life.” He wrote that he would like to walk around the Smithsonian with me to check out some of the exhibits or maybe go to a driving range since I like golf; something so that we could chat some more and get to know each other. He also wrote that if I wanted, we could exchange emails back and forth for a while, chat on the phone, and then finally meet in person but that since meeting in person was the only way to see if we really had chemistry, we might as well cut to the chase and meet up.
I have received similar requests in the past and have chosen to go the less direct, more traditional route. This time I decided I would do things differently. Walking around the Smithsonian could take a while though and was not as convenient so I agreed to the driving range. It seemed like a fun way to get to know him and even if it didn’t get to work, at least I would get to hit a bucket of balls.
I must point out that at that point in time, I knew very little about Glen.* I knew that he was a former Marine, self-employed, enjoyed the outdoors, and lived in Annapolis. There were pictures of him hiking and hanging out with friends. I also knew that he had taken the time to at least glance at my profile since he suggested the driving range because in my profile it said that I had taken golf lessons. That may seem like a small thing but not all the guys that have tried to chat me up have even read my profile all the way through.
We weren’t off to a great start when Glen* texted to say he would be a few minutes late. Even though I got there early I wasn’t too annoyed at first as I decided I could get some more practice before completely embarrassing myself in front of him with my lack of skills. However, things got worse before they even really began as he ended up being 30 minutes late. Not because he worked late but because he got lost. He got lost because he refused to look up directions before coming – he just figured he would find it out on his own. He told me that people rely too heavily on things like maps and the internet when they should be more self-sufficient. Then he laughed a little too loudly, a little too strangely.
Shaking it off I decided I was getting ahead of myself and trying to find things wrong with him before I even took the time to get to know him. So we settled into a somewhat comfortable silence as we both started taking some swings. The rest is all a blur of semi-enraged, rambling, vitriolic monologues by him while I became more and more afraid for my personal safety.
First Glen* started on a rant about reality TV. I’m not sure how we got there but I think it began with him talking about how selfish people are as of the last 10-15 years and how no one helps each other anymore. Glen* blames reality TV for this breakdown of society. I said early on that I really didn’t understand what he was talking about as I’m not a big fan of reality TV and I can’t see a link between the popularity of reality TV and a decline of altruism. He then asserted rather loudly that “A whore is still a whore. It doesn’t matter if she’s on tv. It’s still wrong.” I asked him to repeat that a few times as I wasn’t sure how he had come up with that statement and at first, as he was virtually yelling at me while saying this, it seemed like he was calling me a whore or blaming me for all the whores on tv. It had something to do with him not being able to go to a grocery store without seeing something on the Kardashians, a group who I have to be honest I’m still not sure why they’re famous and why I should care about what they do.
This first rant went on for a few minutes and was alarming more because it happened only 10 minutes after he arrived.
Next up on his list of pet peeves, Glen* began a tirade on the federal government that would last for the rest of the date. Now it's generally accepted that it's a severely bad idea to talk about politics in general on a first date. That is especially true when your beliefs are of the extreme variety, you're at a public place where loud conversations are not encouraged, and you cannot speak about politics and the government without working yourself into a foaming rage. Glen* believes that the federal government should be struck down. He said that there was nothing remotely redeeming about it and that we lived in an Orwellian nation with no rights and no responsibilities and he was sick of it. Glen* reminded me a little bit of the crazies that would call the office when I worked as an intern for a congressman while I was in college. I had a few crazies who called the office whenever I was scheduled to work, to tell me that they had built tin foil hats to prevent the government from listening to their thoughts and if I would send them my head measurements, they would build one for me too. Most of these guys seemed fairly harmless though – I had one who after we talked about his tin foil hats, he would recite me some patriotic poems he had written. Ok, so he was wacky and so were the others. But they were on the phone and didn’t have any of my personal information so they seemed relatively harmless.
Here I have to point out that Glen* was a physically intimidating person – a tall guy who works with his hands as a landscaper and general handyman – and the more inflamed he became during his vitriolic speeches, I actually began to get a little frightened. Thankfully we were in a public place and I did have my golf clubs close at hand, but still.
Next up on his list of things wrong with the world: seat belts. He’s against seat belts and feels strongly that there should be no laws requiring them. How dare a policeman pull him over and make him pay money for not wearing something that a government who’s authority he did not recognize order that he wear! This somehow turned into a 5 minute rant about the evils of Blackwater and Haliburton and the defense industrial complex in general. Apparently these evil contractors had stolen the only opportunities that “stupid Americans” had to get paying jobs to take care of themselves: the role of army cooks. Yes, Glen* morphed his rant on seat belts to one against contractors to a spittle-laden speech about how much trays of food cost in the army.
Then we were on to his obsession with the concept of survival of the fittest. This came up when an idiot on the other side of the range walked onto the grass to retrieve several of the balls that hadn’t gone far. I pointed the guy out to Glen* and asked him to hold up until the guy moved. Glen* tried to take a swing as he said it would teach the guy a lesson. Apparently a lot of idiots needed to be taught a lesson and if I would stop espousing the general “coddling and caretaking of society” then we could “weed out all the idiots who were ruining the gene pool.”
I don’t know at what point I changed from fear to anger but toward the end of the date I started getting really ticked. I had far too many bad dates to put up with this shmuckatelly for much longer. He had got in my face and ordered me to explain my opinions, defend myself as to why I thought his view of society was not what our forefathers had intended, and answer if I thought that everyone should be given a home and a car and everything they need while sitting on their butts waiting to collect welfare.
I didn’t rise to the bait. Not because I was afraid of what he would do if he got an angrier. But because I was too fed up to even waste my breath on this guy. Instead, I picked up my driver and took a swing at the ball, imagining I was hitting a different ball entirely.
Today I learned that I play better angry. Not when I’m angry at myself for missing the ball or for doing something wrong or playing poorly. But when I’m angry for someone wasting my time, attempting to blow out my small flicker of remaining hope that there is a funny, kind, unique guy out there waiting for me who is not stone cold crazy – that’s when I can really haul off and knock the stuffing out of that ball.
Amazingly, or not perhaps given my history, Glen* said that he had fun and that he’d like to go out again. I put down my club (but kept it close at hand), took my sunglasses off, looked him in the eye and said that while I respected his right to believe whatever he wanted and to express those beliefs, I didn’t want to listen to him anymore and that his beliefs, personality, interests, and pretty much everything were anathema to me. I told him that I was leaving but hoped that he enjoyed the rest of his evening and I may have even wished him good luck with his future matches, while under my breath I wished all his future matches better luck.
*Name has been changed
I have received similar requests in the past and have chosen to go the less direct, more traditional route. This time I decided I would do things differently. Walking around the Smithsonian could take a while though and was not as convenient so I agreed to the driving range. It seemed like a fun way to get to know him and even if it didn’t get to work, at least I would get to hit a bucket of balls.
I must point out that at that point in time, I knew very little about Glen.* I knew that he was a former Marine, self-employed, enjoyed the outdoors, and lived in Annapolis. There were pictures of him hiking and hanging out with friends. I also knew that he had taken the time to at least glance at my profile since he suggested the driving range because in my profile it said that I had taken golf lessons. That may seem like a small thing but not all the guys that have tried to chat me up have even read my profile all the way through.
We weren’t off to a great start when Glen* texted to say he would be a few minutes late. Even though I got there early I wasn’t too annoyed at first as I decided I could get some more practice before completely embarrassing myself in front of him with my lack of skills. However, things got worse before they even really began as he ended up being 30 minutes late. Not because he worked late but because he got lost. He got lost because he refused to look up directions before coming – he just figured he would find it out on his own. He told me that people rely too heavily on things like maps and the internet when they should be more self-sufficient. Then he laughed a little too loudly, a little too strangely.
Shaking it off I decided I was getting ahead of myself and trying to find things wrong with him before I even took the time to get to know him. So we settled into a somewhat comfortable silence as we both started taking some swings. The rest is all a blur of semi-enraged, rambling, vitriolic monologues by him while I became more and more afraid for my personal safety.
First Glen* started on a rant about reality TV. I’m not sure how we got there but I think it began with him talking about how selfish people are as of the last 10-15 years and how no one helps each other anymore. Glen* blames reality TV for this breakdown of society. I said early on that I really didn’t understand what he was talking about as I’m not a big fan of reality TV and I can’t see a link between the popularity of reality TV and a decline of altruism. He then asserted rather loudly that “A whore is still a whore. It doesn’t matter if she’s on tv. It’s still wrong.” I asked him to repeat that a few times as I wasn’t sure how he had come up with that statement and at first, as he was virtually yelling at me while saying this, it seemed like he was calling me a whore or blaming me for all the whores on tv. It had something to do with him not being able to go to a grocery store without seeing something on the Kardashians, a group who I have to be honest I’m still not sure why they’re famous and why I should care about what they do.
This first rant went on for a few minutes and was alarming more because it happened only 10 minutes after he arrived.
Next up on his list of pet peeves, Glen* began a tirade on the federal government that would last for the rest of the date. Now it's generally accepted that it's a severely bad idea to talk about politics in general on a first date. That is especially true when your beliefs are of the extreme variety, you're at a public place where loud conversations are not encouraged, and you cannot speak about politics and the government without working yourself into a foaming rage. Glen* believes that the federal government should be struck down. He said that there was nothing remotely redeeming about it and that we lived in an Orwellian nation with no rights and no responsibilities and he was sick of it. Glen* reminded me a little bit of the crazies that would call the office when I worked as an intern for a congressman while I was in college. I had a few crazies who called the office whenever I was scheduled to work, to tell me that they had built tin foil hats to prevent the government from listening to their thoughts and if I would send them my head measurements, they would build one for me too. Most of these guys seemed fairly harmless though – I had one who after we talked about his tin foil hats, he would recite me some patriotic poems he had written. Ok, so he was wacky and so were the others. But they were on the phone and didn’t have any of my personal information so they seemed relatively harmless.
Here I have to point out that Glen* was a physically intimidating person – a tall guy who works with his hands as a landscaper and general handyman – and the more inflamed he became during his vitriolic speeches, I actually began to get a little frightened. Thankfully we were in a public place and I did have my golf clubs close at hand, but still.
Next up on his list of things wrong with the world: seat belts. He’s against seat belts and feels strongly that there should be no laws requiring them. How dare a policeman pull him over and make him pay money for not wearing something that a government who’s authority he did not recognize order that he wear! This somehow turned into a 5 minute rant about the evils of Blackwater and Haliburton and the defense industrial complex in general. Apparently these evil contractors had stolen the only opportunities that “stupid Americans” had to get paying jobs to take care of themselves: the role of army cooks. Yes, Glen* morphed his rant on seat belts to one against contractors to a spittle-laden speech about how much trays of food cost in the army.
Then we were on to his obsession with the concept of survival of the fittest. This came up when an idiot on the other side of the range walked onto the grass to retrieve several of the balls that hadn’t gone far. I pointed the guy out to Glen* and asked him to hold up until the guy moved. Glen* tried to take a swing as he said it would teach the guy a lesson. Apparently a lot of idiots needed to be taught a lesson and if I would stop espousing the general “coddling and caretaking of society” then we could “weed out all the idiots who were ruining the gene pool.”
I don’t know at what point I changed from fear to anger but toward the end of the date I started getting really ticked. I had far too many bad dates to put up with this shmuckatelly for much longer. He had got in my face and ordered me to explain my opinions, defend myself as to why I thought his view of society was not what our forefathers had intended, and answer if I thought that everyone should be given a home and a car and everything they need while sitting on their butts waiting to collect welfare.
I didn’t rise to the bait. Not because I was afraid of what he would do if he got an angrier. But because I was too fed up to even waste my breath on this guy. Instead, I picked up my driver and took a swing at the ball, imagining I was hitting a different ball entirely.
Today I learned that I play better angry. Not when I’m angry at myself for missing the ball or for doing something wrong or playing poorly. But when I’m angry for someone wasting my time, attempting to blow out my small flicker of remaining hope that there is a funny, kind, unique guy out there waiting for me who is not stone cold crazy – that’s when I can really haul off and knock the stuffing out of that ball.
Amazingly, or not perhaps given my history, Glen* said that he had fun and that he’d like to go out again. I put down my club (but kept it close at hand), took my sunglasses off, looked him in the eye and said that while I respected his right to believe whatever he wanted and to express those beliefs, I didn’t want to listen to him anymore and that his beliefs, personality, interests, and pretty much everything were anathema to me. I told him that I was leaving but hoped that he enjoyed the rest of his evening and I may have even wished him good luck with his future matches, while under my breath I wished all his future matches better luck.
*Name has been changed
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