COLUMN: Dating: It could always be worse
If you happened upon The Statesman last week, you’ll know there has been some hubbub about dating recently – a column-on-column debacle that sent heads rolling. People have asked my take on the matter and I respond with four simple words.
Just don’t be creepy.
That’s all there is to it. You can be as repulsive or timid as you’d like so long as you avoid the creepy band wagon – or as I like to call it, the “E-Harmony Dot Com Cart.”
Now let’s be honest, it’s hard to pinpoint what exactly constitutes date-creepiness, but trust me, when it happens to you you’ll know. It’s as obvious as Joan Rivers is a lizard. But to give you a striking example, let me share with you what is hands-down the worst date I have ever experienced.
We rewind back to an age of time that speaks to every truth-seeking American – my senior year of high school. After a rigorous day of sleeping in class I walked aimlessly to my car and I found a message for me, written with Twinkie filling, mind you, on my windshield.
“Will you go to Girl’s Day with me?”
I buried my head in my hands. This invitation would have been half-salvageable had it not been from the girl who had been painstakingly crushing on me for two years. I had mental visions of Zack’s tragic date with Rhonda Robistelli in “Saved by the Bell,” but in an effort to be more kind than cruel, I accepted.
Big mistake. After four weeks of enduring endless phone calls and MSN messenger “convos” about our “wonderful night” from Rhonda 2.0, the day finally came.
I’m sure the dance was decorated beautifully, but I was unable to partake as I was preoccupied by Rhonda dancing so close to me it may have been a fire hazard. After enduring three hours of the vertical paper jam Rhonda called the waltz, our date-group sat in her bedroom and hung out, which went swimmingly well until I noticed everyone leaving the room one by one, the last departee slowly shutting the door.
And there I was. Alone, on her bed, with my own Miss Robistelli just feet away, with nothing left to do but gulp, tremble and plot the death of everyone in the house who set me up.
She scooted closer to me, with a devilish look in her eyes. At this point I was making mental notes of every vent and open window in the house in case of a needed escape. This was when she whispered the five most frightening words in the human vernacular.
“I have something for you.”
I became pale, praying she was talking about collectible plates, and watched her reach under her bed and pull out a three-inch thick scrapbook with a black and white photo of yours truly on the cover.
I fell numb with shock as she placed the book on my lap and flipped page after page of what had to be every photo ever taken of me, with used gum wrappers to boot. This woman was Jason Bourne with braces! I felt like the detective in every serial killer movie who just found the killer’s stash of newspaper clippings only to find a photo of himself as the next victim. Terminal illnesses would have been less frightening at that very moment. And it only got worse.
Having picked up on my disinterest, and seeing me purely vulnerable, she pulled the no-huddle offense, leaping toward me, lips flared, for her “magic moment.” I had to limbo-electric slide off her bed in effort to avoid her chops, swiftly leaving the room to join the gang watching “Drumline.” My distaste for unrequited love and Nick Cannon gave me course to ask her to take me home.
I quickly hugged her at my door and that was it, the dreaded Operation Rhonda completed. Now to shower, change my e-mail password and go to sleep. I’m never eating Twinkies again.
See what I mean? As long as you fish away from Creepy Harbor, your dating life is sure to at least be better than this fiasco.
Oh, and if she asks about me, I moved to Figi with Truman Burbank.
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