Sometimes one date is all you need. Sometimes one date is one too many. Blogger and columnist Rebecca McGuire writes:
“Dear First Date Disaster,
You were my first real date after a pretty traumatic breakup last year. I was excited – I was back in the ‘dating game’. I went into our date hoping that it would either go super well (hello potential husband!), or super badly (hello MamaMia blog content). So. Here we are…
Now, before I begin, I just want to say that I take full ownership for what ensued. I found you at the worst (irrefutable fact) nightclub in Brisbane. (Note to self Rebecca: It is true, nightclub pickups are always bad. Don’t try it again.) I was at worst-nightclub for a bit of a giggle at the lame music; you were there for your night out. That should have sounded alarm bells for me. But it didn’t. After all, you were/are pretty hot. Silly, shallow me.
Anyways, so, our date. You turned up to our medium-to-high-end restaurant date in thongs, which I originally thought – okay, cool he’s from the coast; he’s a chilled out kind of guy, I need that, I’m highly strung. No no. Wrong. Turns out, you’re not chilled; you’re actually a bit of a bogan.
I came to the ‘bogan conclusion’ pretty much straight away. And, whilst I can be a bit judgey (a very ugly side to me, I admit), your response to my “Why did you move from country NSW to the coast?” which involved you telling me that you threw a sausage roll (yes, seriously, you said that) at your ex-girlfriend’s face in one of the country pubs down there, and therefore you needed to get away from that experience, confirmed your bogan status.
I have to be honest. I am still wondering – what part of that story was I supposed to find endearing? I know people often misstep/misspeak out of first date nerves, but really? Could you not have just said “It was time for a change” or “I wanted to experience coastal life”? I continued to nod along, smiling, appearing unfazed. Meanwhile, I was vomiting in my head.
I however must again take responsibility here for making the assumption (and I even know that ‘assume makes an ass out of u and me’!) that given you’re a country boy, you would be mature, or at least have a few years on your city counterparts. Never again will I get my facts from Farmer Wants A Wife. (PS. Natalie Gruzlewski – you have betrayed me and the sisterhood.)
Our date then decayed further in to you telling me what your football mates get up to on the weekends. I was taught what ‘shelving pingers’ means. Thanks for that. And for the imagery. So appropriate whilst I ate my lunch.
You then confirmed your bogan type (cashed up bogan) by telling me the cost of a suit you “messed up, whilst breaking up a fight and then getting into it.” You used the term ‘king-hit’. Again, not really endearing.
To try and move on from this, I asked if you had done some traveling. “No, none,” you replied, and the reason? Because you spend all of your money on your mates. Now, had I not seen your thongs; heard the ex-girlfriend-sausage-roll story; been taught about ‘shelving pingers’; been told the cost of your suit, and been exposed to the words ‘king hit’, I might have assumed that your money went to your mates because you are a generous fellow – because you like to help your friends out when they’re in a bind. No, no. I think it’s safe to assume it gets spent on rumbos every week at your local.
So, all of this, and to think that I white-lied and told you that I walked to the restaurant because I didn’t want you to see my nearby parked dirty car, and make a bad first impression. (My Nanna has always said “Becky, no man will ever marry you if they see the inside of your car.”)
From the girl who will always admire/perve on you from a distance only, alas,
Rebecca (no-second-date-required-thank-you) x”
Aside from world peace, she hopes for a world where strangers say “good morning” to each other, and that sneezes are always followed by “bless you”. Rebecca aspires to be the next Ita Buttrose, but with brown hair.
What is the worst date experience you have had ?