My miracle little book, The Writer’s Block, offered up another challenge for me today. I will go back and start crafting stories out of these ideas as well, as is the purpose of the book, but since I blog, and since some people out there enjoy my blog, I thought I could turn this one into a blog piece as well. Wow, I wrote blog a lot in that last sentence. My rhetoric teacher would be awfully disappointed in me for that. Oh well, I doubt she reads this anyway. 

One of the prompts was to write about two people having a really bad date. That got me thinking – what was the worst date I’ve ever been on? When you’ve spent the better part of your adult life in the dating world, the events can get muddied and some can be forgotten. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a lot of stories to tell from my years on the market. I do. Boy, I do. But I don’t really have one stand out awful for all the wrong reasons date. Maybe I was lucky. Maybe I’m just so damn spectacular that it’s impossible to have a bad time with me. Or maybe I was just lucky. 

I’ve had some great dates, some good dates, some average dates, and some bad dates; but nothing bad enough to be entered into the Hall of Fame. I’ve had some dates that involved struggling to find a taxi at 3 am in Saudi Arabia so I could make sure Kirsty got back to her villa and not get fired. I think that was our third date. I cooked, we watched movies. Not much else to do here really. 

The award for my worst date though would have to be the night I saw the Rolling Stones back in ’94. Even though I know she doesn’t read my blog, I won’t mention her name, just in case I become unraveled and start spouting obscenities. Besides, it might not really be her fault the date was so crap. Maybe it was me? Maybe I was just too much goodness for her to be around? Maybe my sex appeal, seldom seen in such high quantities outside Hollywood, scared her off as she suffered from a long-standing inferiority complex. Or maybe, and this might be the case, my obviously overactive imagination (as you’ve just witnessed) had her thinking she couldn’t keep up with me? Although, if I recall, all of our dates up until our last one were pretty low-key affairs. 

The Stones were our third date. Ah, the magical third date (according to folklore). You see, the third date is statistically the date when most people grant access to their personal goodie bags and the third base coach in your head waves you around until you’re slipping into home (if you know what I mean?). But not this one. And we both knew that going in. She was Italian, had a very strong faith, and wanted to take things slow. I was intrigued by her, was hypnotized by her soft brown eyes almost instantly, and having just moved back to Edmonton after a couple of years in Calgary, thought a slow approach would be best. 

I was working two jobs, my full-time job as a laborer in a steel warehouse and I had a part-time working the concession stand at a local bingo hall. Besides all the smoke, it wasn’t too bad a job. I was, and am, blessed with the ability to schmooze, so I’d usually take home $40 in tips each night as the customers loved my manners, my sense of humor, and probably a few loved my dimples as well. I met her at the bingo hall. Her soccer team was working it, as most amateur clubs and organizations do to raise funds. We hit it off immediately. She succumbed to the pressure of her friends, one of whom was interested in a date as well, and asked for my number. 

Our first date bordered on the cliché, dinner, movie, and then a drink afterwards. We went to a little pub near the movie theater and the first question she asked me after we had ordered was, “my friend wants to date you if we don’t work out, what do you think about that?” I remember the question vividly. Talk about an introduction. I casually brushed it off, telling her that “she” had asked for my number, I said yes because I was interested, and if I wanted her friend’s number I would have asked for it. This worked. She got giggly, very touchy-feely, and let her guard down more than I expected. We went to watch Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and movie about Australian drag queens traveling across the Outback. It’s still one of my favorite movies to this day. 

The next week we went to a party, where I learned about soccer tryouts, and she introduced me as the guy she was seeing. Well, she did say my name as well. We laughed, laughed some more, and I thought it was a no-brainer asking her if she wanted to see the Stones with me. She didn’t hesitate, agreeing on the spot. We hadn’t talked about it before. This was the first she knew I had tickets. No one else at the party knew either – they were her friends not mine. I had been planning to surprise my dad and take him to the concert, as he is a huge Stones fan. 

We talked all week, the day before the concert I had flowers delivered to her house, a mushy phone call returned later that day. She wanted to drive to the concert, and even agreed to drive my friends who were up from Calgary (having won floor tickets). The concert was good. She danced, we swayed, we were inseparable. When she drove us home at the end of the night my friends went inside and she held me back, after bidding them a good night. She held my hand and put it in her lap and said, “Thanks, that was fun,” before kissing me on the cheek and driving off.  

That’s the last I saw or heard from her. Now, I don’t claim to be a smart man, and I will never say that I know anything about women, but I was more than a little shocked by the events of that night. Granted, it wasn’t a terrible date, but it is the one that stands out as the worst date I’ve been on; simply for the fact I have no idea what the Hell happened. They say there are lessons in everything, and I learned one from this night – always take your dad to see the Stones. 

Cheers