My Worst Date

Telling this story is never fun unless you’re drunk—and I mean REALLY drunk, because then, at least, either you forget you’ve told the story or everybody else does. But I suppose everyone has a least one awful date story in their lives, and what fun would it be if no one shared them? So, here goes nothing.

When I was in my second year of university, there was this guy in my drama social that I really liked. Let’s call him "Sam" for anonymity’s sake. He was cute, not particularly handsome, but he had what I liked to call, "boyish charm," which, when I think about it, may not be the most flattering thing to say about a guy. Anyway, I liked him, and just like in high school, I found out through the grapevine that he liked me too. Which was great. As someone who had very poor luck with men, this was extraordinary progress. Unfortunately, both of us were shy. And when I say shy, I mean suffered with a crippling case of "unable to talk to opposite sex" syndrome. And being somewhat of a traditionalist when it came to love and romance, I assumed that it should be the guy that would ask the girl for a date. So I waited. I waited five months. Yes, that’s right, five months in total for a date. I waited around two months for us to start having casual conversations whenever we happened to see each other. I waited another month after that for us to start messaging and texting each other, which never led to anything substantial. Then I waited another month before he finally gave the teeniest hint that he actually liked me. Instead of hearing it from someone else, it was straight from the horse’s mouth. Then, when he did nothing about it, I decided to take the trousers from him and wear them myself and ask him out, something that would never have happened in Pride and Prejudice, I can assure you.

We agreed to go for a drink together, just to the local pub that was close to my horse, in case we both combusted from nervous energy and had to get out of there pronto. I made sure I never called it a date, at least not to his face, just in case he got too nervous—or I got too nervous. Somehow calling something a date immediately puts a pressure on the entire evening, at least for me it does. It can stop people from enjoying their evening and start worrying incessantly about the other person and whether they are having fun, which they’re obviously not because they have a crazy person sat across from them. But we sat in a booth at the back and talked. He got me a drink which I fought at first, but then decided to let it go, it was a "kind of date," after all. We were talking for a while, but he was doing this thing where every five minutes or so, he would look up at the door. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but in hindsight, that was a major clue as to what was about to happen.

His phone kept buzzing on the table, which I felt was a little rude, I’ll admit. He was on a "kind of date," but now I know he was waiting for someone. We were in the pub for about 20 minutes, drinking, chatting. He was making me laugh, I was making him laugh (incredibly proud moment for me, I can tell you!), when a guy and girl walked in. I thought nothing of it until "Sam" stood and greeted them. He hugged them both and then proceeded to talk to the guy for what felt like an eternity. He didn’t introduce me, which was fine, but then, he asked them to sit down, which was not. As me and "Sam" were sat opposite each other, I assumed he would swap and sit next to me. He did not. The girl slid in opposite me, and "Sam" slid in next to her. The other guy went to go and get a round of drinks. "Sam" and this girl started talking. It must have been a whole ten minutes before he finally introduced me, which she responded with the oh-so ambiguous, "I’ve heard so much about you." Why is it that when guys say it, it sounds so charming, like they were just talking about you, it makes you feel special, but when girls say it, there’s this smugness attached to it, like they have the upper hand all of a sudden? The other guy came back with the drinks, impressively carrying the four in one hand. The optimistic side of my brain was hoping that "Sam" being sat by her for so long was an act of charity, keeping her company while her other half was gone and shielding her from our "coupley-ness," and that he would move now that the other guy was back. He did not. The other guy sat down next to me, almost spilling my drink over me as he accidentally hit the edge of the table. We started talking. We may as well, I thought, as "Sam" and that girl were knee deep in conversation. He was nice. He talked about sport a lot, which didn’t enthrall me at all and made me question how he and "Sam" even knew each other. I tried to find a common interest but it was scathing, and every time he did talk, even about something I was slightly interested in, I found myself wondering how a guy can be so okay with someone who I assumed was his girlfriend spending the entire evening talking to one of his friends, ignoring him and being stuck chatting with me. After what felt like three weeks of conversation with sports guy saying so much, and "Sam" saying hardly anything to me, the girl announced she needed to "pop" (yes, she did in fact say "pop") to the ladies room, and more than hinted at me that she wanted some company. Despite being a firm believer that as an adult, you should really learn to go the bathroom yourself, I joined her to escape the dreaded Six Nations conversation we were very quickly heading towards.

She went into one of the cubicles while I fixed my hair and makeup. When she said she needed go the bathroom, I didn’t think she was one of those girls who actually needed to piss. I thought she was one of those girls who only used the toilets as a boy free gossip zone, but she stayed silent, and I found myself taking on that role myself. "So, how do you know (Let’s call the sports guy, ‘Tom’) ‘Tom’?’"

"We’ve been friends for years. Since we were, like, four."

She said friends. She definitely said "friends." I didn’t know how to respond so I simply said "Oh."

"How do you know ‘Sam’?" came echoing from the cubicle.

"We’re in drama social together."

"Oh yeah, he did say something about that." At least, he mentioned me. "He’s so funny," she said. This annoyed me.

"Yeah, he is," I said, as coyly as possibly could.

"And he seems really sweet, bless him." Aggravation increased. She then appeared. "He really isn’t the type I normally go for but maybe that’s a good thing. Change it up, right?"

I smiled. What the f***! What the hell did she just say? You heard it, right? I didn’t say anything. I was paralysed with shock. She washed her hands, fixed her hair, asked me if she could borrow my lipstick, which I stupidly gave to her, and then turned to leave, but not before sweetly asking if I was "ready." Ready? Ready for what? To go back on a date with the world’s most boring sports commentator? No, thank you! I had a small window of opportunity to get out of there immediately. But I couldn’t just go. They would think something was wrong. In response, I quickly said, "Just a minute, I feel a bit funny. You go, I’ll be there in a sec." I wasn’t exactly a lie, I suppose, I did feel incredibly sick. I took a moment to gather myself, concocted the convincing lie and confidently walked back out towards the table. I explained I wasn’t too well, that I had a headache and would make my way home. They tried to convince me to stay, but it wasn’t convincing enough, especially not from "Sam." "Tom" handed me my coat and offered to walk me back. Thankfully, he had a fresh pint on the table, which I insisted he finish. I said my goodbyes and got myself out of there.

As I walked back, I tried to make sense of everything that had just happened. I was on a date. With a guy. With a guy I liked. And then all of a sudden, I wasn’t on that date anymore. I was on a different date. With a different guy. What the hell?! How did that even happen? Where was the communication breakdown? I like you, you like me, would you like to go out with my friend? How does that make any sense? "Sam" still hasn’t realised his mistake. Two years later, he still doesn’t seem to get it. To be fair, I still don’t get it! I guess I had a lucky escape in the end!