Yes, I am an online dater. Maybe I’m just being optimistic or perhaps it’s just embarrassingly hopeful that this might actually end up panning out for me in the future. Recent history however is trying to beat that notion down with a (insert swear word here) vengeance.
After five months with a guy who never intended to be my boyfriend but whom I had convinced myself was indeed my boyfriend combusted, I reactivated the ‘ol POF account. And I got me some gems.
Dates are tough. Blind dates are even worse. I consider online dating to be a form of blind dating because people lie up a (insert swear word here) storm on the internet so you never can fully prepare yourself for what you’re walking into. I shall elaborate with my own personal experience.
I was to meet a guy downtown for drinks and so we decided to meet at a transit station and go from there.
He shows up in all his non 5’8” (I’d say a strong 5’5″ is a more accurate measurement) glory donning a beautiful burlap satchel which he seems to have fashioned into more of a fanny pack. He’s insulting my favorite fictional TV characters. I’m regretting everything.
We decide on a place to consume alcohol and I’m ecstatic because I can finally commence drinking. The place is empty and as I walk towards our table he rushes by me and bounds onto the empty stage and commences giving a mock acceptance speech to the line of wait staff and bartenders who look on in an alarmingly calm and unresponsive manner which I found to be confusing because I myself was mortified.
We’re drinking, I’m drinking. I’m done drinking. He’s not closing his mouth. He wishes he could be more racist at work. He’s dumbfounded by environmentalism. He likes to bike a lot more than anyone I know would ever bike. He confesses to being a professional pantomime and not a carpenter. I’m not surprised. He mimes to the waiter for more beer. I die a little more inside.
PEEEENNISSSS is yelled mid conversation. Apparently I’m now part of a game I did not agree to engage in. I can’t decide if I hate him more than his chin strap beard.
It’s over. His ADD has kicked in and he needs to leave and my coats already on. But the bastard left his wallet in his work pants. You carry your wallet whilst you pantomime around? No, I call bullshit, but I pay anyway because I just want to go home.
He gives me a wink and double-handed-finger-point-clicky thing for the eleventh time this evening as a thanks. On the way out he pulls out a jar of weed from his burlap fanny pack and hands me some. “(insert swear word here) the cops, nobody cares. Smoke this it’s MK, I know my weed girl.” I don’t argue and I take it.
Good bye, Pantomime Dan. I go home and I check my POF account.
Have you ever had a bad date? Send it to us at firstname.lastname@example.org and it just might be shared with the rest of Vancouver, anonymously of course.