First Is the Worst

Though I am unsure which to feel worse about, #MyWorstDate was also my first date. The only silver lining is that I was able to get both out of the way in one mortifying evening. Many of the finer details are fuzzy, blurred by years of attempts at repression. However, the main points are still very clear.

It was 2001, and I was on the downhill slide towards being sixteen. Before you begin to wonder, my date has no connection to the tragic events of 9/11, however, this date went so badly that there should be a memorial for it.

You should know before reading any further that this was a “pity date.” I know this because I was told by the people who convinced her to go out with me in the first place. I don’t know if they told me this to keep me from getting my hopes too high, or if they were just being cruelly honest the way kids in school could be from time to time. Nevertheless, it was a condition I was aware of and that I was comfortable with. I mean, it was my first date, how could I complain? After all, it was basically a group of us at the movie theater with the understanding that I was supposed to be there with a specific girl.

(Let’s just call her “Jane” since I am sure she would hate to know that anyone remembered this.)

From Jump Street, I was under-prepared for dating. I had no money; I wore blue jeans that were tattered and dingy, and a thick green sweatshirt that could not be removed without becoming a spectacle. It was the perfect outfit to impress a girl with poor vision. Sadly, “Jane’s” only impairment seemed to be decision-making. I say this because, to recap; I was on a “pity date,” dressed like a bum, awkward, and flustered.

At my dad’s apartment, I splashed on some of his cologne and officially completed my transformation from regular me to dateable me because before the date could begin to disappoint, I had to go out to eat with my dad and his girlfriend. Their excitement for me could only be matched by my nervous pessimism. They didn’t know it was basically charity for “Jane” to go on a date with me. He asked me how much money I had for the date and I was forced to admit that I only had ten dollars. He rolled his eyes in disappointment and continued eating while my head tried to sink into my neck.

My dad’s girlfriend, however, thought it was adorable that I was too tense to eat. The gurgles from my gut begged to disagree. My stomach was in knots while I anxiously waited for dinner to mercifully end. My dad, shaking his head with frustration of having to bail me out, gave me some money and a look that said to me, “try not to screw this up.” I profusely thanked him while I clumsily struggled out of the back seat of his two-door Camaro to meet up with the group, already waiting outside the entrance to the theater.

My breath seized up in my chest when I saw “Jane.” She was a pretty girl, willing to be seen near me in public. At that age, I would have proposed to her just for not ignoring me. For the moment, I forgot about how much convincing it probably took to get her to agree. Soon, I sensed she didn’t have the happy date type of energy that I was hoping for. Her vibe was more “let’s-get-this-over-with.” Of course, I didn’t blame her one bit. But she still said yes, so I hoped that maybe she liked me at least a little. Plus, I had an ace up my sleeve; cash. I could pay for her ticket and come off as a genial guy.

Instead, “Jane” wanted to pay for her own ticket. Even after I tried to pay for hers, she insisted we “Go Dutch.” I felt dejected. I thought she didn’t want to owe me anything because she had already decided that we would never be going out ever again. And the date hadn’t even started.

We saw Rush Hour 2. It was a group decision and I was just happy to be there. The movie watching itself was uneventful. I spilled some popcorn on the floor, probably laughed too loudly and kept my arms and hands to myself. I could have gone to that movie alone and everything would have been the same. By the time the ending credits rolled, I understood that this “date” was really just a group hang out with nothing to make it memorable. There was nothing I could do or say that would suddenly turn things around.

As we were walking down the stairs to exit the theater, I slipped and fell. My ankle folded under me and I tumbled hard down the concrete steps. The butter from my spilled popcorn had turned my sneakers into skis. I tumbled down at least five steps before I was able to reach out and grab the railing to stop myself. The embarrassment was hot and immediate but not strong enough to distract from the pain in my ankle. It was crushed underneath me against the corner of one of the stairs during my sudden descent. It throbbed as I got back to my feet and threatened to buckle while I slowly limped down the rest of the stairs.

“Jane” and the other group members laughed with varying degrees of concern and humiliation. So, to save face, I tried to take control of the mishap. I walked with a super exaggerated limp down the hallway and out of the lobby. The group laughed at my expense but I didn’t care. It was all I could do. Using humor as my defense mechanism came so naturally that even when I knew they were laughing at me, it felt okay because at least it was something I did on purpose. Regrettably, it took hours before I would realize just how horrified “Jane” rightfully was and that it would definitely be a topic of conversation on Monday at school.

Outside the box office, the group began to part ways and I remembered that I didn’t even have a ride home planned. The group was piling into their respective parent’s cars and I stood still, wishing I had broken my neck in the fall. “Jane” saw me without a ride and even offered me a lift home. I would have taken it too if I hadn’t been so disgusted in myself, so I politely declined and made up an excuse about my ride being late. To convince her, in a fit of mock anger, I kicked the trash can next to me. What I didn’t see until too late was the large refillable soda cup that was sitting on top of the garbage. My kick sent it hurtling to the ground and landed with a three foot soda blast radius.

Jane’s good nature had completely run out. She stopped feeling sorry for me and began to back away toward her mom’s car, thus putting an end to #MyWorstDate.