Jolyse Barnett | Dating 101: How to Recognize a Bad Date

Back in college, a guy friend of mine asked me out to dinner. We’d been friends
more than a year and hung out together quite a bit, so I didn’t suspect it was
an actual date until I learned the restaurant he’d chosen was across the
US-Canada border, about two hours from campus, and that he wanted to make a day
of it. Open to the idea of travel, I agreed to give it a go.

On the big day, my friend showed up in a suit and tie. Feeling underdressed in
spite of my new shirt and pants, I changed into a dress and heels. Back in the
eighties, that involved the wearing of panty hose. He’d put a lot of thought
into our itinerary, though, so I decided I could tolerate a little itchiness.

The drive to our destination was pleasant, and the weather and stroll through
the city’s historic district was beautiful—almost enough to distract me from the
torture of navigating cobblestone streets in heels. Turned out, those scratchy
nylons were a blessing in disguise, since they helped contain the swelling in my
newly twisted ankle. Next up was our museum visit. I stifled a groan at the
thought of all that walking, and instead asked if he wouldn’t prefer hanging out
with me on a bench in the nearby park. He rolled his eyes and assured me I’d
love the place. Apparently, I’d become a war history buff somewhere between the
car and the museum that sunny spring afternoon, because never before had I
expressed such an interest. Still, the way my friend’s eyes lit up when he spied
the military paraphernalia made me reluctant to set him straight.

When our tour was complete, I allowed a sigh of relief to trickle out. I’d
failed to notice how long my friend’s legs were or how fast his stride prior to
trekking eight exhibits in ninety minutes. I’m pretty tall for a woman, but my
bugger of an ankle wasn’t cooperating, and my toes had started to whine. I’d
survived, however, and we were off to the restaurant next. Who knew? If I were
lucky, he’d use the restroom early during our meal, and I’d have a chance to
request a little ice for my ankle and have it resting discreetly beneath our
linen-covered table before he returned. We’d enjoy our candlelight dinner
together, and all would end well.

As fate would have it, the moment we stepped onto the plaza across from the
restaurant, my friend let out a blood-curdling scream. My heart racing, I turned
to see white and grey goo covering his perfect hair. Must’ve been a big bird,
too, because the slime was even dripping onto the shoulder of his immaculate
brown jacket.

I admit it was an unfortunate circumstance, and I can’t fault the guy for being upset. But after the initial shock, I’d expected him to laugh, or at least acknowledge the humor he might see in the moment, if not then, one day far into the future. Only he didn’t. In fact, he did just the opposite, turning toward me—his face red and veins bulging dangerously at the temples. That’s when I realized I was laughing. Not at him, of course, but at the irony of the situation. He’d been so intent on having the perfect date, only to have a bird come along and make a total mess of it. My giggles died and I apologized profusely, then I hobbled over to the nearest shop to return with a peace offering of paper towels.

But the damage was done. Perhaps, if I hadn’t laughed, he wouldn’t have
responded with anger. Perhaps he would’ve even been able to laugh at himself.
Then again, maybe not. We didn’t go to dinner that night, and the ride back to
campus was one of the longest, most uncomfortable experiences of my life. We
remained casual friends the remaining college years, but he didn’t ask me out
again. That’s just as well, because I wouldn’t have accepted. Even at the tender
age of nineteen, I knew life wasn’t going to always be sunshine and roses, and
that I wanted, heck, needed to surround myself with people who choose to see the
bright side of life…even when they’re covered in bird poo.