Our tale of woe comes to us from Meghan in Murray Hill (that’s Manhattan for all you outside the 212), and it involves a lot of opinions and very little tolerance. Sounds like the perfect recipe for a love connection, clearly.
Casey, the Studio Tech: “I met Casey through a dating website, but it turned out that we had a friend in common. We decided to meet up on a Saturday afternoon after a little back and forth. Obviously I checked with our mutual friend first to see what his deal was, and I was assured that he was not a serial killer and was at least as marginally good looking as his photo. Because he lived in Brooklyn and I lived in Manhattan, we decided to meet downtown and walk across the Brooklyn bridge together, since it was nice out that day. Great, game on, or so I thought.
When I saw him, I was immediately struck that he was wearing skinny jeans, a fact I could’ve possibly overlooked if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, “Oh you’re definitely a Murray Hill girl, you’re wearing the uniform and everything.”
He was smiling when he said it, but I looked down at my leggings and ballet flats and suddenly wanted to punch his lights out, nice first impression. I managed to refrain from asking him if he was the 3rd member of MGMT, and made a mental note to kill our mutual friend next time I saw him.
While we walked, we talked about Brooklyn and how we’d end up on the other side of the bridge in the DUMBO-slash-Brooklyn Heights area. He made some obnoxious comment about how elitist Brooklyn wasn’t real Brooklyn, and how living in a $2 Million apartment or brownstone defeats the purpose of living in the outer boroughs. I asked what parts were considered “real Brooklyn” and he said Williamsburg, where he lived.
He rattled off a list of bands that I’d never heard of and then, when I said I thought I recognized one of them, he quizzed me on how and what their songs were called. I felt like I was on Jeopardy. (*Miss Wingman note: you should’ve said, “I’ll take things that make me want to choke you for $1,000, Alex.” What, too hostile?)
Then he told me about the band he plays in (he’s the bassist – naturally,) and he started singing me some of their songs, complete with air guitar accompaniment. It was loud, and people around us started staring. I’ve never been so excited to get to the other side of a bridge before in my life, and kept silently pleading in my head for it to stop. But since we were only like 30 minutes into our date, he suggested we grab a drink at an outside bar for a bit, and I felt too rude saying no. Big mistake.
At the bar, I told him that my sister works for Romney’s campaign (bigger mistake), and he said, and this is a direct quote, “People who vote Republican are ugly on the inside.”
At that point, I was sure all bets were off, so when he excused himself to go to the men’s room, I did the only acceptable thing I could think of: I ordered a glass of the most expensive Scotch the bar carried, and then left before he returned to the table. Maybe it wasn’t the classiest move. But hey – some people just have it coming.”
Meghan: On the contrary, it would’ve been classless if you slammed the drink then stuck him with the bill. At least this way you left him to pay but he still got a drink out of it. It’s a win-win as far as I’m concerned.
I guess the moral of this story is that you shouldn’t go on dates with people on bridges. The temptation to hurl them over it if they suck is too strong. And putting yourself out of your misery could be equally tempting, too. Next time try a shooting range, it’s much safer. Glad you and your ballet flats hit the bricks, and better luck next time. Cheers –MW.
Have a dating horror story you’d like to share? Send it my way, firstname.lastname@example.org. Remember: the only upside to a bad date is using it for a laugh. Your misery is our enjoyment, so keep ‘em coming.