In honor of Valentine’s Day, some friends and I have decided to share our Worst Date Ever story. (We are romantics.) My dilemma? How to narrow it down to just one.
In 2004, I met my husband at the (merciful) end of a long summer of on-line dating. Mr. Rosenberg was my 53rd first date. The stepping stone dates it took to get to my husband, flicker in my mind like a rom-com video montage. There were some average dates, plenty of nice-guy zero-chemistry dates, but the ones that stand out are the dating fails.
There was the extremely tall, minor league baseball player I met at a sports bar in Burbank. He said no more than four words to me the entire meal, but managed to chat up our waitress.
The TV editor I met at the Oaxacan place. We ordered the chicken mole´and chapulines (grasshoppers). During the meal, he had a panic attack and excused himself to call his therapist. I don’t think it was about the grasshoppers.
The experimental-video director with the white faux-hawk I met at a hipster coffee roasting shop in deepest Hollywood. He spent the date in an hour-long monologue about his ex-wife “Julia,” stopping only to show me photos of her. Also he was, by all appearances, gay as a box of birds.
I can’t forget the mini-guy with the mini-Cooper. This small-ish man asked to meet at a Korean Barbecue place in little Armenia. A struggling writer/actor/production assistant, he confided that he had looked up my name on Internet Movie Database and noticed that I was a producer. He then proceeded to pitch me an animated children’s show about singing gummy bears.
The screenwriter I met at a pub in mid-Wishire who, based on his startling non-resemblance to his photo, had obviously posted a picture of someone else on his profile. He brought me three mixed CDs of music based on what he “knew” I would like.
There was the English tutor with a script in turn-around and a famous roommate, that I met at a Starbucks in Korea Town. This guy corrected my grammar within the first five minutes of our introduction. Then, he proceeded to inform me that rather than be put-off by this, I should be grateful for the new information so I could fix my error and not appear to be uneducated.
The studio exec who insisted on meeting at a fancy-pants restaurant and then, at the end of the meal, meticulously split the bill to the penny. Two weeks later, I saw him getting into his Lexus in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s. When I waved, he pretended not to recognize me. Or something.
The sports photographer I met at the all-night diner in Los Feliz. I had high hopes for this guy, but then things started unraveling once we realized I had dated his younger brother. Then it got weird. So weird.
There was also the extremely tan, French tennis pro I met for lunch at a vegetarian place in Santa Monica. He was on a non-stop series of calls on his cell phone, the entire meal and then asked for a second date. I said, “Non.”
Thank God, I finally met the lanky musician with the studio temp job who was living with his mom. My night in shining mini-van, Mr. Rosenberg appeared, met me for sushi, and fast-forwarded my story to happily ever after.
Happy Valentines Day.
For more first date stories visit these lovely ladies:
