I find bad date stories totally fascinating, don’t you?
I’ll share my own worst date story ever in a subsequent post, but I was reminded of bad dates when out on the town Friday night, watching the various machinations of people trying (mostly in vain) to connect with each other.
Various friends and I have tried to spot the first-dater-ers in the crowd before. We also provide dialog, background, and commentary on just how the date appears to be going to the candid observer. I’ve even found myself making snarky asides to total strangers next to me at a bar, for example, while we’re both awestruck at the total disaster looming in front of our eyes, heading for the brick wall at 60 miles an hour.
So. I know you have ’em – share your worst date ever story with us here. I might even be able to cough up a prize or two – although, to be fair, if I posted my own worst date ever as part of this contest, I’m quite sure I’d win hands down.
Here are the ingredients, as a teaser: a much younger and not quite so savvy Betsy…a personal ad in the Village Voice (long before I worked there myself and had a better handle on what to expect)…an older gentleman in a three-piece-suit…and a black, synthetic fiber area rug that shed.
It’s also the first event where I took hold of my true calling – being a snarky NYC-type with more than a dash of (well-deserved) bitchiness.