Crass, Crocs, and Confessions... Oh My!

It seems online dating is the way of the future for humans to meet and hook up these days. Through the help of Match.com and eHarmony, the socially handicapped have a chance at finding that special someone, and hooking up is easier than ever with the advent of phone apps like Tinder. We can connect with each other faster and conduct entire relationships solely over the Internet. So why is dating still so damn hard?

People. That’s the simple answer.

Like many of my millennial cohorts, I ventured into the world of online dating following the breakdown of a short-lived marriage at the ripe ol’ age of 24. I didn’t have an enormous social circle, and my place of employment didn’t exactly offer many opportunities for meeting Prince Charming. So rather than resign myself to a lonely existence in a convent, I signed up for an account on Match.com and crossed my fingers, hoping for the best.

My first few messages and encounters were less than desirable, to say the least. Most of the men I met were using the site for sexual hookups, some were woefully uninteresting, and others were just downright creepy. I fell into a couple breadcrumb traps and even managed to be suckered into giving a blowjob in a Wal-Mart parking lot, all in the name of finding love.

My efforts finally paid off in the form of two seemingly sincere contacts: a 22-year-old former Marine named Kevin, and a 27-year-old social worker named Steve. They were exact opposites; Kevin was rough-and-tumble with a touch of country boy, while Steve was the poised and polite academic. Steve was my “type”; Kevin was not.

Eventually, my options dwindled until only the aforementioned guys remained, and suddenly it was like the Hunger Games of the dating world: Team Steve versus Team Kevin, with my family taking bets on who would be victorious.

Just to prove to myself that I knew what I wanted, I set a date to meet Kevin in person. We agreed to see a movie and enjoy lunch at Red Lobster, and with the date set, I was convinced I’d met my match.

Unfortunately, I had no idea how wrong I was.

The day of our meet-up arrived, and Kevin picked me up at my house. I bounded outside, only to be met with immediate disappointment. The tall, deep-voiced, handsome Marine I had been envisioning was nowhere in sight. Instead, I was faced with a man barely taller than my five-foot-three inch height with a crew cut and wearing a plain gray t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He greeted me brusquely, his voice sounding much like a boy who had just hit puberty. Choosing to be open-minded, I moved toward his car, where he already had the passenger side door open, and stopped dead in my tracks.

He was wearing Crocs. Actual Crocs. Navy blue, holes in the top, glorified fake rubber, honest-to-God Crocs. Mother of hell, for all things holy, why?

It wasn’t that I had anything against Crocs, in particular, but he was neither working in the medical field nor on a dangerously slippery surface. Again choosing to overlook this faux pas, I climbed in the car and we proceeded to the movie theater.

As if his appearance and fashion choices weren’t already enough to turn me off, he poked fun at me the entire half-hour ride to our destination. I remained mostly silent, unsure whether or not he was making such comments to ease the obvious awkward tension between us. He seemed childish, rude, and altogether immature, though I wanted to be absolutely certain I wasn’t writing him off prematurely. So into the theater we went.

At the ticket counter, I was again horrified at my date’s conduct. Kevin approached the ticket clerk, and loudly said, “Whaddup, boss?”

My inner grammar nerd saw red instantly, and I wanted to die of embarrassment. But it was too late to back out now, and so we found ourselves before the concession stand.

Not only did he use the offending phrase again (“Whaddup, boss?”… or did he use "hoss" this time?), but he also failed to buy me any concessions or even offer to do so. So I sat through the movie listening to him munch popcorn and slurp soda without any of my own to drown out the reminder of his inconsideration. I conceded that at least he’d had the courtesy to purchase my ticket to the cinema.

We entered the theater for Draft Day, the 2014 movie about a fictional draft day in the NFL where the story centers on the Cleveland Browns and their scramble to find and draft a star quarterback. It wasn’t a bad movie, but there were probably better choices for a first date. Throughout the show, Kevin’s eyes remained glued on the screen, his body language depicting anything except interest in me. He didn’t attempt to hold my hand, put his arm around me, or even so much as sit close enough to bump elbows.

After the movie, Kevin mentioned that he needed to use the restroom (likely from the 32-ounce soda he consumed by himself), and I used the time to text my sister.

Freeze frame. Now, I’m sure you’re aware of those columns in certain ladies’ magazines that act as a sort of hall of fame for all manner of stupidity committed by the female species. Women write in, confessing their secret misdeeds and describing their biggest blunders. I can say (not proudly) that I now belong in one of those columns, my actions emblazoned in newsprint to be forever admonished.

While Kevin was in the men’s room, I frantically texted my sister, telling her all about the terrible time I was having and describing how much Kevin reminded me of a very crude, very douche-y friend of ours, who also happened to have been a Marine. I hit "send" and continued waiting for Kevin, wondering how I was going to make it through lunch.

I didn’t realize my error until Kevin sauntered out of the restroom, checking his phone.

He laughed and sent me a confused look.

“What’s this?” he asked, showing me the screen.

And there, on his phone, was the text I’d sent my sister. Cue facepalm.

“What’s this about our date going badly? And I remind you of your crappy friend?”

Laughing sheepishly, I replied, “I suppose you want to just call things a day and take me home now, right?”

Kevin gave me a wolfish grin. “Hell no! I’m hungry. I want to eat.”

And so I was forced to endure an even more awkward lunch. I ordered only a bowl of soup, which I barely touched thanks to my burgeoning anxiety, while Kevin gorged himself on seafood and pasta. Conversation was slim, at best, and I was left praying for a quick and painless end to this utter failure of a first date.

The ride home was thankfully silent, and when we arrived back at my house, I slipped out of the car as gracefully as I could with a muttered, "thanks." I didn’t even bother to watch him pull away and disappear down the road.

When I went inside, I was met with an ironic "I-told-you-so" expression from my sister, and a surprising text message from Kevin.

"I really wanted to kiss you," it read.

Are you f***ing kidding me?!?!?!

So I responded in the way any remotely sane person would in the same situation: I ghosted. I ignored every one of his following texts, and finally, he caught the hint.

This isn’t going to go anywhere, is it? the final text said.

Right-O. I deleted his number and proceeded to tell the entire horrible story to none other than Steve. Our conversation took off effortlessly. We met a week later, and the rest is history. Four years, an apartment, two cats, and a home purchase later, we’re still together, planning on tying the knot someday soon.

While the date with Kevin was #MyWorstDate in every sense of the word, I was able to take away two very valuable bits of wisdom from the experience. The first is that we all have a “type” for a reason. That sort of person just clicks, meshes, jives—you get the idea. Their personality and habits just work with yours. Don’t go trying to force yourself into a box or shove square pegs through round holes.

The second (and probably best) wisdom I obtained is this: Always double-check the recipient of your text messages, especially when you’re texting something incriminating. Better yet, delete any conversations with the douche-y guy you’re seeing before you text your sister about him.

#MyWorstDate