Lighting myself on fire would have been better. Ok, so that’s an exaggeration. But it was a pretty terrible date. Definitely the worst date I’ve ever been on. And sadly he broke the streak of grade A man beef that PoF had been providing me with up until now.
Let me set the scene for you: A few days ago, when we agreed to get together for drinks tonight, we decided on the local pub. For ease of blogging without specifically identifying the city I live in, we’ll call it Sprocket. Yes, even the bars get nicknames. So Sprocket, being the local pub, is bad for first dates for a few reasons. One, I often know other patrons, and two, I always know the servers and bartenders. I’d had one awkward first date there before, so earlier today I texted Dumbass to see if he’d rather go to Leroy’s. Leroy’s is in a neighbouring city, but it’s only an extra ten minutes or so, and they have delicious mojitos.
Wrapped up family dinner, called Dumbass to figure out a time, and as his brother was over he needed some time to get ready, he said he’d call me back. Shortly before 8pm he calls, and I say I’ll be at Leroy’s between 8:20 and 8:25.
I get there right on time, and head inside. I’m taking my sweet time because I’d rather not awkwardly sit alone at a table, so I use the washroom and then have the hostess put my name down. Five minutes later I’m seated in a corner, and I text him to let him know that I’m there.
I’m checking the door and my phone, and the minutes are ticking by. No word from Dumbass. I harvest some zombies. Still no reply. I check the door. There’s a dude in a blue shirt wandering around looking lost. He goes outside. I wonder if it’s Dumbass, so I call him. No answer. I do a zombie invasion.
Then blue shirt guy comes back in, but he’s talking to some old skinny drunk dude at the bar. This can’t be Dumbass, because Dumbass has only been to Leroy’s once before and shouldn’t know any of the creepy old regulars. I text him: Where are you? I plant some zombies. I text a girlfriend to see what the protocol is on these situations, as I’ve never been stood up before. It’s been nearly 30 minutes since our agreed meet time, and I haven’t heard a peep from him.
At 8:55pm, pissed off and frankly a little flabbergasted that I’ve been stood up by the guy that harassed me for a date for a month, I head home. I’m on the phone with a girlfriend when he texts me. I ignore it. Then he calls me. I ignore that too. I eventually pull over and check my phone:
9:01pm: I’m here too !’
Then he calls. I answer. His phone is all staticky and cutting out, but the gist of it is that his friend stopped by with his kid, they had a couple of drinks, his friend was crying about his phone being dead, so Dumbass lent him his phone thinking finding me at Leroy’s would be simple. I tell him that I left. He immediately replies “So let’s go to the Sprocket!” He was the guy in the blue shirt. I tell him that making me wait this long is unacceptable and that I’ve lost all enthusiasm for meeting him tonight. He apologizes, I hang up.
Oh how I wish I had stuck with my gut.
Ten minutes later I’m nearly home. He texts:
9:17pm: Can i please come & pick you up and i’ll take you out. i’m so sorry !
I really didn’t want to go home yet, so I reluctantly agree, and tell him sure, fine, Sprocket in ten minutes. Be there or you’ll have an angry blonde on your tail. I turn around, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Despite him saying he’ll be on the patio, I walk in to find him in the middle of the bar. He apologizes again, and then gives me a hug. It’s a pretty decent hug (I’m big on hugging), so I kind of relax a little, and we sit out on the patio. He’s actually pretty good looking too, and looks a lot younger than 31. More like 26. But he’s wearing his hat backwards, and there are two spikes in the brim. I am disconcerted. I notice he has massive hands. I am intrigued, and this makes up for his juvenile choice in headwear. He apologizes for the Leroy’s fiasco. I tell him it’s ok.
The waitress comes up, and Dumbass goes “PITCHERS! We need pitchers.” And he’s gesturing the size of a pitcher with his hands. I order an MGD. The waitress looks to him, and again he goes “PITCHERS!” She says, “Will anyone be joining you?” He looks at me, I tell him I already ordered a beer. He pauses, shrugs, and then says “PITCHER!” The waitress tells him pints are on special. He reluctantly decides on a pint. Waitress leaves.
He apologizes, and then says he’s a dumbass, and proceeds to explain what happened. He leant his phone to his friend, couldn’t find me at Leroy’s, so he gunned it back to his house to get his phone, and then booked it back out to Leroy’s. He apologizes again, and then again, and then again. I’m getting really irritated, so I interrupt with “SO! No more apologies, it’s ok. Life story! You’re a mechanic, right?”
“Well I’m a mechanic on the weekends. When I want.”
Hoo boy. Here we go.
He’s technically worked as a mechanic in the past, but only ever in entry-level jobs, so now he’s just a mechanic on the side (read: no formal training, he fixes his buddies’ cars in exchange for beer). I question this, as he’s currently on vacation. He explains that he has a full-time job at sawmill. I ask what he does there. He replies “everything” which loosely translates to “nothing specific.” Apparently, because his eyesight is so great, he can see broken stuff from really far away. He didn’t really elaborate; I didn’t really prod.
He’s a hand talker. I’m a hand talker too, but not to the extreme of this guy. He’s mock-drawing maps on the table, he’s estimating the size of an engine, he’s drawing loops in the air to explain the broken stuff that he spots with his eagle eyesight. I’m getting kind of dizzy from all the waving hands.
Not only is he a hand talker, he’s also a slow talker. This guy either was struck repeatedly on the head as a child, or has a history of serious drug use. I peg his IQ to be around 65. He’s speaking roughly 30 words a minute, interspersed with lengthy delays where he searches for the right word, aimlessly fluttering his hands about the air.
I start to tune out at this point, and then get snapped back to reality when he says something about his kid. “You have a kid?” “Yeah, you didn’t see that on my profile?” [gestures lines on a screen] “No, I didn’t see that.” I feign enthusiasm for said child. Child is nine years old, so I figure Dumbass must has been about 22 when he fathered him. It’s not the first time I’ve neglected to check if they have (a) kid(s), so I roll with it. I’d prefer not to date a dude that has a kid, but hey, accidents happen. Accidents including me not properly reading their profiles.
Then Dumbass launches into a lengthy story about how he spent seven years in a loveless and affectionless realtionship (he actually mentioned Palmela Handerson) with the mother of Dumbass Jr. Hand gestures accompany the tale, and he finally gets to the point where he ended things with her. Then he starts going on about what happened when he was 25. I’m confused; if he’s talking about when he had a kid, that was 22-ish. And if he’s talking about when he finally left her, that’d be like 29-ish. 25? He’s gives me this look that’s kind of like, “Oops! I’m caught.”
He confesses that he had his kid when he was 25, and that he’s not 31, he’s actually 34. Turning 35 in September. “Haha guess the cat’s outta the bag!”
This is not ok. I’m 25. 32 is the absolute maximum age I will date, and even that’s pushing it. I’d prefer to date someone whose age starts with a 2, not a 3. 35 means he’s ten years older than me, and that he shouldn’t have even been able to message me on PoF in the first place as I have restrictions set.
“Haha well my friends made it [gestures typing] and you can’t change it once it’s set. They were like, ‘Yeah, just put that you’re younger and all the girls will love you.’ It’s only three years.”
Well no, you can’t change your birthday on PoF once it’s set. But you can make a new profile, or disclose that the age is wrong in the body, or respect the mailing restrictions that people have set and not message people that don’t want to talk to people that old.
I tell him this. He agrees that he probably could have clarified it in his profile.
At this point, I’m looking for an escape. He’s still yammering on about something I don’t care about, and when he finally stops talking to take a drink, I stand up, thank him for the beer (like hell I’m offering to pay my half), and tell him I’ll be leaving. I didn’t give him time to argue.
He texts me when I’m home:
10:21 pm: Sorry for wasting your time it was miceto meet you anyways’.. Your a sweetie and hot ! And i will change my profile immediately Pof!