By lex, on April 28th, 2008
John Hawkins is running another of his posts about conservative women/bloggers in which he asks about their worst dates ever. For my money, Megan McArdle bears the bell away with her dinner date:
The food came, I started to eat it, and after the first bite, and he actually made a joke about women eating sausage that made me not able to eat any more food.
Also, as he drank more, he started trying to grab my knee under the table — I’d known him now for an hour and a half. The service was really slow, which was just making it worse… I was so mad at this point because he was like a hydra. I’d slap one hand away and four more would grow in its place…
Then we got up to leave and we walked outside and he was like, “Would you like to come back to my place for a nightcap?” …It was around 8 o’clock at night. I was like, “First of all, it’s 8 o’clock and my night’s not quite capped. Second of all, I wouldn’t go back to your apartment because I just met you.” ….Then he looked at me and said, “Well then, how are you planning to pay for dinner?”
I’ve been married since the earth’s crust cooled, so most of my dating stories go back to college and high school. Wracking my mind about my worst date, I found myself coming up short. There was that one gal who asked me to escort her to a debutante ball, which was really not my comfort zone back in the day. What with all the ballroom dancing and so on. As a True Son of Virginia and mindful of my duties I struggled through the event as manfully as I could though, and it wasn’t until afterwards that things took a very mild turn south.
It being a special occasion with flowers and tuxedos and whatnot, I had driven my daddy’s Lincoln rather than the Dodge Dart Demon that was my customary ride. After the affair was over, and feeling flushed with unchapperoned liberty, exuberant youth and adolescent potentiality, we walked out to the parking lot and got in the car. Van Morrison’s “Moondance” was playing on the wireless, and it seemed much the better notion to your youthful correspondent that he and the young lady might turn up the volume, open the doors and dance to a romantic song in the moonlight. Herself asked if I was joking – she had no notion of dancing in parking lots, moonlit or otherwise – and stayed ret where she was on the passenger side, telling me to turn the music down and get back in, for heaven’s sake. Someone might see.
I was young and judgmental. It was our first and last date, as I couldn’t see myself having much in common with a girl who considered dancing to Van Morrison not merely undesirable but implausible. In the moonlight. On a magic night.
As bad dates go, that’s not much, I know.