Given the WOMP-WOMPery of the first few dates, I was thinking about giving up on the whole experiment. There couldn’t possibly be anyone out there who fit the bill, right? Well then I met Vince. Vince was cute, very tall and seemed supersmart from his Match profile. He’d spent years in Europe and thus was multilingual, plus his profile directly addressed his desire for a nice, Christian lady. Could he be my perfect match?
We emailed back and forth via Match’s internal email system (I don’t like to give out my personal email or phone number) and I found him to be unusually direct. By and large, that’s a good thing. I believe most people welcome a straightforward and honest person, and I find myself to be cut from that cloth. Vince’s emails, however, were terse at best. At times, he was demanding and strangely aggressive about peculiar things. He asked me quite a few times for my phone number prior to our date, claiming I might “flake out” and saying he needed me to call to confirm our date 90 minutes beforehand. I repeatedly refused and told him I don’t need a stalker, so no, he wasn’t getting my phone number. I have to say, our pre-date convos were uncomfortable at best and antagonistic at worst. Going into the date, I was already irritated with him and fundamentally, I just wanted to meet him in person so I could ascertain what the heck was wrong with him. Sure, he was neurotic but, hey, so am I. How could I judge that?
We met up on a Monday night at the same old Starbucks. Vince was even cuter than his photos. We chatted about travel, religion and politics and found nothing there to argue about. That’s usually a good sign. But there was something off about him and I’m not quite sure what it was. After chatting for about 10 minutes, he said, “Hey, do you want to go to a restaurant or something?” That wouldn’t usually trigger any alarms, but I just didn’t think leaving my safe Starbucks was a good idea. The entire conversation was more like an interview than a casual coffee date. He was interrogatory, yet not offensively so. At least he was a little bit flirty, at least more than the Vanilla Milkman, but more than anything, he just seemed suspicious of me… like I was some Jezebel masquerading as a nice girl. (If you know me, you know I am NOT!)
I realized it was late so I decided to head home. As we stood up to leave, I collected my empty Frappucino cup to drop in the trash on my way out. Then, with all the cocky, sexist earnestness of Ron Burgundy, he said, “Well, aren’t you going to take my trash?”
You should have seen the look on my face. Disdain! Disbelief! Disgust! I cocked my head to one said, channeled my inner Aretha and demanded some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
“Absolutely not,” I said, with just a little pfffft added in for good measure. I believe my expression said the rest, including, “Oh no you didn’t, you pigheaded fool. I am not trying to hear that. Who do you think you are? Telling me what to do? Nobody’s the boss of me, I’m the boss of my own self! Do I look like your maid?”
Ugh! Why did I even go out with this weirdo? On paper, he was exactly what I wanted. In person, he was odd, skeptical and apparently a jerk. I bet he is the type who expects the little wife to cook and do laundry, plus work, plus have a zillion kids… I dashed out of Starbucks like it was in flames and never looked back.
If you’re keeping score, I’m 0 for 5.
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