If I could count all the unexpectedly bad dates I’ve been on, pretty sure the human race would go extinct.
Let me rewind.
After my boyfriend and I broke up in October, I have had no fraction of any urge to hop back into a relationship, much less date. Perfectly content being single, and that isn’t denial. My life consists of bad hair days and chicken nuggets and I’m not complaining. I don’t have to shave my legs, worry about the consistency of my physique or deal with arguments and jealousy. I can drown in my pool of equal parts drool and tears while rewatching One Direction’s “Night Changes” video without judgment.
Life is great without intermingling boy problems in my newly established life of independence and peace.
However… a face to make out with would be lovely. No emotional baggage or attachment; no sex, no date, nothing else. I want the temporary euphoria during a make out session with a stranger. Sounds premature, but I’m 22. I’m an adult, damnit, and I want to make out with someone without the repercussions of sex or any type of relationship.
A woman on a mission to find a face with make out potential, I decide to attack the bar scene in this questionably STD-ridden college town.
My first stop is a classier Irish-themed pub near downtown. Looking around, my options are limited to balding men with decreasing levels of testosterone or incredibly hot mid-20-somethings with girlfriends or girls on the verge of being girlfriends. I quickly down a Guinness and conclude that it’s time to get the fuck out.
The second bar is more of a dancing scene which, in retrospect, seems reasonable considering what I’m seeking. Wrong. The live band seems to be convinced that playing “Wonderwall” will get people shakin’ it on the floor amidst the asthma-inducing smoke machines and crazy lights that are so overdone I feel like I’m in a remake of Night at the Roxbury — wait, they’re leaving and a DJ is coming on. Praise Jesus! First song he plays: “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Second song: “Don’t Stop Believing”…
Losing hope and sexual energy, I get on the dance floor, slowly becoming encompassed by women in their 40s. Fine with me, their attempts at being sexy are making me look like goddamn Beyonce. But it’s also deterring the only two solid-looking guys in the joint. They leave. Fuck. Two shots of tequila, let’s go.
Five minutes away leads me into Bull’s (Bullwinkle’s), the most college-level bar in town where it’s strictly 21+, so I know I can’t make out with anyone totally younger than me. First thing I do is order a shot and a Vodka Sprite, then proceed to run to the bathroom to make sure I’m not looking like Rosie O’Donnell. I must be buzzed, because I actually am looking like Beyonce right now. I head up the stairs, feeling like a million bucks. And that’s when I see my ex boyfriend at the bar, staring directly at me.
Side note: You should know that we attempted being friends after I broke up with him, but he ceased communication because it was too hard for him and he needed to get over me. So this is about a month later.
Unsure as of what I should do, I smile awkwardly and do a casual, almost aloof wave at him.
What I get in return is a nod in my general direction, then a glance-away. Rude. I shrug it off with another shot and wobble over to my friend, who is surrounded by guys. Not the best looking, but decent enough for my alcohol-assortment goggles. One of these will be the guy I will make out with, I know it! My standards and inhibitions are lowered to the point of no return.
I start a less-than-classy conversation with a guy who tells me he’s in porn, as a joke (I’m still not 100% sure), and I play along by saying I am, too, and how we have so much in common already and we’re meant to be. Because he knows I’m joking, this doesn’t scare him and I can tell he’s game. Things start getting blurry. I need to survey the other options in the building. So I move along for the time being.
At this point, I see my ex and I’m drunk enough to confront him about how he’s being immature and he could at least say “hi” like a functioning adult. But then he vanishes back into the crowd. Another shot, can’t remember what. Then some guy (I don’t remember him being attractive even through my drunk lens) bought me some shitty Apple Pie shot. I went back upstairs and start speaking to this heavier guy about video games, and how fucking awesome I am in general. I don’t remember anything else after this.
My head is throbbing the next morning. Did I at least accomplish my make out mission?
The day turns into me trying not to throw up and Netflix binging. Around 4 p.m., I get a text from a contact listed in my phone as “Hot Bulls Dude”:
Hey it’s Matt I’m on my way
Huh? I text back:
I’m sorry, think you have the wrong number!
You told me to get you around 5 today cause we’re going on a date
No? I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
Hot Bulls Dude:
This is Lauren right
Is he a stalker? Is he going to kill me? Am I in Taken 3?
Hot Bulls Dude:
Then we’re going on a date you gave me your address already at bulls lol
While he may kill me, my stance is, why not? If anything, it’ll make for an interesting story. I don’t know what the fuck is happening, so I agree to go on said date.
He shows up at my door and my contact name serves me correct. He’s hot and my jaw is on the floor. How did this even happen? Am I actually Beyonce to where I’m on this guy’s level, physically? I am wearing a V neck shirt and jeans. I am not prepared for this. God damnit.
But alas, we see Interstellar and then he takes me to eat at fucking Moe’s. Fucking Moe’s. A burrito joint? Really? Does he want me to smell like a foot and hold in the inevitable gas that will result from eating here? Whatever. I get a burrito bowl even though I want an actual burrito, because there’s no way I’m going to look sexy while stifling a burrito in my face.
After much debriefing, Hot Bulls Dude tells me how I seemed completely sober and he tried to kiss me, but I told him I wouldn’t kiss him until he took me on a date. So I put my number in his phone and wrote my address on a bar napkin. A bar napkin? Really? That’s Strike One, why would a guy follow through on a date with a bitch who writes her address on a napkin? Where did I get a pen from? Why didn’t I put it in his fucking phone? And why did I ask for a date when he was willing to make out with me minus the intellectually unstimulating date situation?
Wanting to punch myself in the hungover face, I pretend as if that’s not how we met and just think about making out with him instead. Suffering from burrito breath, I pop a stick of gum in my mouth and listen to him and talk about my overall interests. Finally tuning in to his incessant droning, it slaps me in the face like a fat person’s triple chin: He’s fucking stupid.
I discuss my love for travel and my plans for next year, visiting England, Germany and France. I ask him his top places he’s visited and he states, simply, “Washington and California.”
“Washington D.C. or the state?” I inquire.
“Those are the same place. Where the President lives,” He nonchalantly states.
I blink at him, waiting for the punchline of this unamusing joke. He stares back. I realized he wasn’t joking.
And that’s the story of how I got up and walked out of a burrito restaurant on a date and aborted my make out mission.