I have never had a “best date.” I've had some good dates, some bad dates, and even remember my worst date. But never a best date.
Sure, I've had a lot of dates. I don’t think there is anything wrong with dates, and in fact I've enjoyed quite a few dates over the years. I’m admittedly quite good at talking to women, and most would agree that I am quite a gentleman. But these two things are completely irrelevant to dates.
I haven’t had a date in over a year. In fact, I remember my last date. It was almost a year ago, the first week of May 2013. This date was the very reason I have abstained from dates since.
She was strolling through the produce section of Harris Teeter when I noticed her. I normally shop at Whole Foods, but Harris Teeter is closer to where I live and I was in a hurry to do my groceries. She was only a few inches over five foot—short and cute, with soft brown hair in a ponytail and light white skin. I recognized her but was not sure from where; I considered approaching her and introducing myself, but felt it was too awkward. Plus, she seemed heavily invested in the store’s dried fruit selection.
I continued on with my shopping—eggs, milk, sandwich meat, and my beloved hash browns—when ten minutes later I suddenly recalled where I knew her from. Her name was Angela, we had taken European History together. We actually knew each other mildly, having chit-chatted multiple times throughout the semester. Suddenly, I felt an inner urge to talk to her. She was the love of my life.
As I left the store with my bags of eggs, milk, sandwich meat, and hash browns—I love hash browns—I noticed her loading groceries into her trunk.
“This is my chance.” I thought audaciously.
With a confidence I had never felt before, I approached her.
“Angela, right? It’s me, Rob, from school.”
“Rob!” She exclaimed, embracing me in an enthusiastic hug. “How are you?”
“I’m just terrific! Been enjoying these first few weeks of summer. How about yourself?”
We talked for a few minutes, it was no big deal—after all, I’m good with girls. Suddenly, I laid the question.
“Random question. You’re a cool girl, we get along well, and I was wondering…could I have a date?”
“Sure, I would love that!” She replied to my surprise.
She reaches into her trunk and pulls from a grocery bag a produce bag with a twisty tie. She undoes the tie and pulls a small, shriveled fruit from inside. She hands it to me.
I take a bite from this wrinkly maroon fruit. It tastes pungent. Almost bitter. The taste—though bad—is not unbearable, but as I feel its sticky, slimy skin against my tongue, I become nauseous. Before I can spit it on to the ground, a hurricane of vomit fires from my mouth with the force of the Greek god Zeus. I failed to re-position my body, and suddenly short, pretty Angela was covered in a slime of half-digested blueberry waffles, jelly beans, and Monster (an energy drink).
“UGH WHAT? I AM SO DONE.” She yells, running away. I wiped the vomit from my chin and climbed into my car, fighting tears.
As I watched the love of my life run across a Harris Teeter parking lot, screaming obscenities, I came to the quick conclusion that I do not like dates. I don’t even care that they’re high in fiber or potassium. I hate dates.
