I panicked, and in the resultant mad dash to get the hell out of there before he saw me and really woke up, I evidently forgot that I hadn’t opened the door all the way…and proceeded to smash my left cheekbone into the doorframe. Because I am cool. And extremely coordinated.
The pain instinctively caused me to whisper/shout “SHHHHIIIIIT!,” which, of course, roused him. Nothing like waking up your sleeping child with profanity to get the day started off right, and really give you that push you’ve been needing to throw your hat in the ring for Mother of the Year.
The doorframe, by the way, is apparently made of titanium, diamonds, and/or Superman, because, DUDE. My face is busted. I look like I should be on a Lifetime Original Movie (entitled It Wasn’t Really the Doorframe: The Metalia Jones Story), or on Jerry Springer, shouting at the crowd, “All y’all haters can STEP! He loves me!” (And then, you know, stripping without provocation, thus causing my allegedly abusive boyfriend AND the busty she-male prostitute with whom I’m cheating to fight.)
I’ve consequently spent the better part of the past few days explaining the damage to the side of my face. One of the people to whom I had to explain this injury is an old friend, who I’ve known forever, and who, fortunately, knows all about me and my klutzy ways. She then launched into her Worst Date Ever story, which involved the guy accidentally elbowing her in the mouth, causing her to have a split lip. And this was after the CAR ACCIDENT that they got into earlier that night. Seriously.
While I couldn’t compete with that, the discussion did remind me of my own Worst Date Ever story, which, looking back? I can’t believe I haven’t already discussed here. Some of my "real life" friends will definitely remember this one:
I was in college, and I’d been helping a friend of mine study for a final. His friend “Dick” stopped by the apartment, and we all sat around talking. The next day, my friend told me that Dick wanted the three of us to grab dinner that night. Okay.
I had needed a haircut anyway, and the evening out was just the impetus I needed to get one. Only at that time, I lived in a part of
By the time I returned home, my hair had dried into chunks that resembled the mop on the head of Adam Duritz (of Counting Crows fame).
It really looked very much like this. Only longer, and more uneven. "Mr. Jooooooooones and me..."
Of course, it was too late to do anything, because it was dinner time! I headed over to my friend’s apartment, and somehow, he weaseled out of the dinner plans, and suggested that Dick and I just go ourselves. It dawned upon me that the whole thing had been a ruse, set up by Dick, to get me out on a date. (Which? Just ask ME. Sure, I would’ve said no, but still!)
I was still sort of in shock as to how this whole thing had come about, and Dick and I headed out into the night. We got into his car, and he said, “I can’t wait to cook for you!” I knew he lived nearby, so became a bit concerned when we crossed over the bridge into New Jersey. I asked him where, exactly, he’d be cooking for me, and he told me he was taking me to his parents’ home.
We then drove for an HOUR AND A HALF. Now, 2007 Metalia would have said, “Hell no, sucka!” and cut things short right then, but this was almost 10 years ago, and I was younger, and infinitely dumber.
Finally, we arrived at the house, and his entire family was home. I think his brother was secretly mocking my clumpy hair. His mom came out and showed us a modified yoga/dance routine that she'd just learned, while I kept a Stepford-esque smile plastered on my face, the likes of which you’ve never before seen. I just kept thinking, “How did I get here? What’s going on? Is he a serial killer? Am I going to be on Dateline?”
He cooked me dinner, which was not at all awkward, considering we’d just met the day before, and I’d basically been ambushed into this date. His family retreated, and we went into the den so he could play guitar for me.
Now, a question for all you ladies out there.
What do you do when a guy is playing guitar for you? I've never figured this out.
Do you look at him?
Or the guitar?
Do you applaud politely?
But perhaps most importantly, what would you do if some dude who you do not like in any way and who you JUST MET started singing and playing an original composition entitled (misspelled so as to deter Google perverts): “Plessure Me Orilly”?
I’d like to know.
Because after I nearly vomited in terror, I told him to drive me back immediately. (I know, I know, but I had no money for a cab!) I called my roommate, and stayed on the phone with her the whole time so I didn’t have to talk to Dick.
Oh, and Dick (living up to his pseudonym after the evening didn’t go as he’d planned), refused to drive me back to NYC, and instead dropped me off at my parents’ house in NJ. You know what’s fun? Explaining to your parents (in very vague terms) why you randomly appeared on their doorstep at on a random weeknight when you live in another state.
I have no idea how I got from the start of this post to here, but whatever; there you have it; my worst date ever. (Made infinitely worse by the fact that I was technically never even informed that it was, in fact, a date. Sneaky bastard.) What about you? What was your worst date?
(P.S. -- J? Retelling this story made me love you that much more. As a token of my appreciation, I’ll clean out the fridge tomorrow. FOR REAL THIS TIME. The chicken from 3 weeks ago and the old-ass broccoli have evolved into higher life forms, and are developing cognitive thought. I suspect that they are conspiring to stage a coup.)