Top 10 Worst Dates (#10)

    They joys of singlehood are long behind me, and even though I have been with my husband for 10 years, I reflect back on some of the highlights of dating.

    I have had some amazing dates, met some wonderful guys, and even though they weren’t “the one” for me, I remain friends with a few and have contact from time to time. Most have married, have girlfriends, and are still seeking someone that will change their world. I like that we can be friends and laugh at ourselves all these years later. I do believe that men and women can be friends – but maybe that’s just my own perspective based on my own experiences. It doesn’t make me wrong, and it doesn’t make me right. I love the gray areas of life.

    Then, there are those dates that will live in infamy in my memory. I have no shame in admitting I went out with what some might consider “a lot” of guys…but I did date often. I guess I should define “date.” The word doesn’t equate to “slept with.” I will define it as simply a single (or a guy I believed to be single) and I going out without other people or children for an evening of entertainment to be shared by both parties. Yes. That is always the plan, is it not? It sounds utterly simple, but somehow, all of us can screw it up. It may come as a total shock, but I am far from perfect. I am certain I have been the bad side of a date, and as I think of them, I am happy to share them.

    So: Top 10 Worst Dates of My Life

    1. I met this guy at a bar in Galveston. I was out with two girlfriends at a pool hall having a great time and having a couple of drinks (I believe Amaretto Sours were my flavor of the day back then). A guy had been checking me out all night, and he was really attractive. I remember he looked like he’d been in a business meeting because he was wearing the slacks, nice shoes, sports coat, button shirt with no tie. His hair was dark brown (I’ve always had a thing for the dark haired guys), wispy (lack of a better word) and a little wind blown. He had beautiful green eyes, too. He was with 2 other guys, but apparently none of them were interested in my girlfriends. As the night grew on, one of my friends had to go home to her husband. Then, it was just two of us, and the guy finally made his approach. He introduced himself, asked if he could play the next round with me. He was pretty suave. We talked for a while and he seemed like a neat guy that was educated and funny (my favorite). So then he asked, “I have had a little too much. Can you drive my car home?” Ugh. He killed it with a lame line. I told him no. He said, “Please? You can drop me off at my place and drive to your house and hang onto my car. I’ll call you in the morning and you can bring it back and I will take you home.” What was wrong with this guy? Well, my girlfriend who probably saw an opportunity for me, spoke up. “You can drive him home in his car and I will follow you to bring you back home.” Awesome. Thanks, sister. Ugh.

    With that, he tossed me his keys and went to the restroom. Me being appreciative of classic cars and hotrods, I noticed a Corvette emblem on his keyring. Surely he must love Vettes or something – no one in their right mind would drive one to this hell hole in Galveston and leave it outside and then offer a complete stranger to drive it home.

    He came back out of the restroom (and noteworthy: he had washed his hands), and said, “Okay, we can go.” As we came to the parking lot, I saw a 1967 Stingray sitting there…simply elegant. Beautiful is too simple of a word, but other words escape me. I became giddy. A good looking guy, a fine automobile, and I was leaving with both. We get in the car, and he’s explaining how the car works (my Dad had one, so I was quite familiar). I fired it up and felt the whole car come to life in the seat under me. Yes, it was going to be a great time. He lived about 30 miles from Galveston, which pleased me greatly. As I got to the cause-way, I began to drive a little faster than the speed limit. The top was down on the 427 L89, and this guy was too drunk to care, or too shallow. As we got off the freeway and into his town, I perfected my ability to catch a 3rd gear scratch from every stop sign and stop light. I fell in love. With his car. I had zero respect for the guy, and any admiration I had for him when we met was long gone 20 miles ago. What guy would hand over such a fine piece of machinery to…well… some blond chic that he met an hour ago at a pool hall in Galveston? What a moron (or how desperate, not sure which).

    We pulled up to his gated home and I keyed in the code. I drove his car up the long drive way lined with trees as the gate closed behind me. I pulled the car up to the front of his house in the circle drive. I noticed another Corvette and a Mercedes parked on the side of his house. My girlfriend had pulled in behind us in my 1995 blue Dodge Caravan. Awesome. She was hanging most of her body out of my driver’s side window grinning like she’d just won the lottery and giving me the two-thumbs-up sign. He asked me if I like cars. Uhm…YES.

    He got me and my girlfriend to drive over to his 5 car garage. Seriously, my apartment could have fit 5 times in his garage alone. He had 4 cars and two motorcycles parked in this “garage.” I use word garage loosely because I saw maybe one small toolbox and not one grease spot anywhere on the floor. I can’t recall what all was in there aside from the 69 Camaro that was beckoning me… this guy was so lucky!

    Anyway, my gal pal was far more girly than me and didn’t really care much to be standing in this guy’s garage for an hour staring at these beautiful pieces of machinery at 3 in the morning. I knew it was time to go.

    I handed him his keys and thanked him for letting me drive him home. We exchanged numbers, and with that, we left.

    I got a call a few days later and was picked up for our next date in the Camaro I met in his garage the first night I met him. We ended up back at his place. He opened the door to his “home.” It was a mini-mansion. I still couldn’t believe he lived there alone, and it never occurred to me to ask what he does for work. I didn’t ask, but finally, he volunteered that he was in the “oil business” and that it had been “good to him.” Wow. All I know is, no job had ever been so kind to me.

    We made out, but that was about it. I think I was kind of overwhelmed and felt pressured by all this material crap around me. Don’t get me wrong, the cars were amazing and the house was incredible, but I think it was all TOO much for me. I am too simple and could never be comfortable in that environment. He took me home and pretended to not be disappointed that I didn’t want to “make cookies” (wink, wink)…that or he genuinely didn’t care.

    He called several times after that to continue to ask me out. He was nice, but honestly, that kind of money made me cringe and things didn’t add up. Why would he have just turned over that car? Because he didn’t appreciate it. If he can’t appreciate things that most people will never get to touch, yet alone own, what was he capable of appreciating? Certainly not me. There’s millions of single women that would salivate at just a glance of his shoes – he did stink of money. He was a tiny bit arrogant and knew his poop didn’t stink, but he was far more humble than most would have been. But I always felt like he was slumming it – I mean seriously… a pool hall in Galveston in your 67 Stingray? I am certain he was older than me, but not drastically so…I was 24 at the time, and I think he was 30ish, 35 tops. He didn’t have children and had never been married.

    I trusted my gut and never went out with him again. When I think back, I wonder if he was a Dahlmer or something. But I guess the bottom line here is that I cannot respect someone who cannot respect themselves or their precious belongings. If he didn’t see that car as precious, then he and I would have never worked out to begin with and we are both out nothing.

    I am sure some women might read this and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. Eh. To each her own.

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