ONLINE DATING HORROR STORY OF THE WEEK: THE CHAMPION

Who doesn’t love some good competitive eating every now and then? Apparently, people on dates (and for good reason). Yes in the midst of this oppressive, sweaty heat wave we’re experiencing, I couldn’t help but sweat it out for the guy who sent in this latest dating horror story.

Meet Rob, the insurance salesman from New Jersey who thought he was taking a nice girl out to dinner, but ended up being the less masculine one of the pair. While Miss Wingman loves when guys send in stories for this feature, I hope none of you encounter anything like this on a date. Ever again.

Jen, the champ: I was set up with this girl through a friend of a friend, but we both had dating profiles on the same site. So I think technically it still fits your “Online Dating Horror Story” criteria. We’d exchanged a few emails and she’d sent me a photo of herself before we decided to have dinner one Friday night. I thought she was pretty, if a bit more athletic-looking than most girls I’d dated. Our mutual friend said she was “into triathlons” and played several sports in a corporate league. I had an ex who was a soccer player, so I thought nothing of it. Game on.

She suggested a sports bar near her house, and when I walked in I saw that she’d already gotten us a booth in the back. When she stood up to say hello, I noticed that she was a lot taller than I’d expected, and almost had bigger triceps than I did. That’s hard to do, I’ve played Rugby since high school.

We exchanged some small talk and sipped our waters while the waitress brought us menus. That’s when trouble started. Our waitress mentioned that, in addition to the specials, the bar also featured a sandwich called the “Big Daddy” that, if you finished the whole thing, would earn you a free meal.

The menu described it as “a colossal stack of gooey, fried awesomeness,” which was really a cheeseburger with chicken fingers, fries and more cheese piled 8 inches high, all wrapped up on “bread” that was really a pizza folded in half. Oh and it was doused in wing sauce, too. My date turned to me and shouted, “Let’s do it!” But the waitress said it had to be eaten by only one person for it to count. I was so freaked out that she would even consider it that it didn’t even really sink in when Jen told the waitress that she’d take the challenge herself.

What the hell was happening?

As I sat there trying to process that a female had just ordered a meal on a first date that even truck drivers couldn’t take down, I glanced at our waitress who shot me back an equally surprised/sympathetic look. “It’ll be great!” Jen told me. “I can out eat almost anyone, and this way I’ll be a cheap date.” Then she high-fived me (not kidding) and asked me about what I did for a living.

I couldn’t even concentrate on what I was saying because she began picking at this enormous scab on her elbow while I was talking (*Miss Wingman note: Ew. Just…ew.) When she caught me staring she said, “Haha, yeah – isn’t it gnarly? I got it playing kickball the other day. We crushed the other team though so it’s all good.”

I would’ve been tempted to get up at this point, but that’s when they brought out the Big Daddy on this huge tray. And handed Jen a bib. Yup – a bib. She was smiling ear to ear, I was exchanging confused looks with guys around me.

Then the waitress went over and rang this cowbell thing on the wall alerting the bar that someone was taking the “Daddy Challenge” and then people started watching and coming over to stand by our table to cheer her on. Within minutes there was a full-blown chant going as Jen dove into this enormous towering pile of food. If that wasn’t bad enough, she had sauce all over her face and hands (not to mention pieces of lettuce stuck to her bib) and when I offered her a napkin to clean up, she said, “Nah what’s the point? I’ll wait til I’m done, doesn’t bother me.” Holy sh*t. I was speechless.

As it turns out, Jen DID finish the Big Daddy. And even though I was grossed out and it was the least sexy thing I’ve ever seen a girl do, I had to hand it to her. It was impressive. But when the crowd subsided and they took away her plate, she realized that someone had taken her purse while she was eating. When she panicked and told me, my first reaction was, “Wait you carry a purse?” She seemed like more of a wallet in the back pocket kind of girl.

We alerted the bar and everyone looked around, but at that point it was a lost cause (on the purse front and the date front). I offered to give her a ride home since her keys were gone, too but she said she’d rather call her roommate to bring her a spare set. I stayed with her until her friend came, but then high-tailed it out of there. As I was walking out, I heard someone let out a long, loud burp and, without even turning around, knew it was her.

Ladies, I know even jock girls need love, too, but if you want a guy to be into you, don’t spend half your date with condiments on your face. Her name is still up on the wall at the bar, by the way.

Rob: This. Is. Awesome. I mean, not the losing her bag part – that’s a stomach-sinking feeling that all women have had at one point or another and it SUCKS. But the devouring a platter of food that would make most dudes cower part is pretty outstanding, you have to admit. On one hand, the scab-picking would’ve made me bolt for the door – I’m nauseous just writing about it. But on the other hand, you have to admire a girl who was so comfortable being herself around you that it didn’t dawn on her to be self-conscious. The only one horrified was you.

And yes, even not-so-girly girls need love, too. But if ingesting 3000 calories isn’t your idea of a fun first date, I totally get it. You’ve got to hand it to her, though. She was a cheap date in the end. And it sounds like she’d be a hit at parties, too.

The next time you go out with a woman who seems like she has more testosterone than you (the next time?), bear in mind how hard it must be for jock-ish girls to find a guy who isn’t threatened by them. I guess it’d be similar to skinny, frail guys who are man pretty finding dates too. I mean, I don’t go out with guys who wear a smaller jean size than I do, but I guess that’s what they made hipster girls for… Either way, better luck next time and to Jen out there – wherever you are – consider this me sending you a chest bump. Well done, girl.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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ONLINE DATING HORROR STORY OF THE WEEK: TO HIPSTER HELL AND BACK

It’s that time again, Wingman faithful. Another week is in the bag, much like the Rangers’ playoff victory (sorry, I’m still gloating from last night’s win). Last week we took a break from the horrifying things you guys have been sending me to focus on one very unfortunate spreadsheet author. This week, we have an equally pathetic tale, only one that involves more of the hipster type than the Wall Street type. Think Jonas Brothers more than Lehman Brothers, if you will.

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.

Disgusted, I changed the subject to what kind of music he enjoyed. Big mistake, we went from the frying pan directly into the fire.

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, misswingman@gmail.com. Remember: the only upside to a bad date is using it for a laugh. Your misery is our enjoyment, so keep ‘em coming.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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