My worst date wasn’t the time a trans woman mislead me to believe she was a biological woman (she was actually a lovely person and reasoned why she deceived me: trans women are fetishised and treated as sex objects); it wasn’t the time a woman took a figurative vow of silence because she was dealing with the death of her best friend from a GHB overdose the weekend before. And it wasn’t the time a dominatrix made me sit quiet for 3 minutes while she timed me on her phone.
It was, however, the time I met an attractive, Australian woman, let’s call her Ali, who I had spoken to on the phone for several hours before. My phone screening needs some work!
Our phone conversation flowed, each of us mining and trading information on each other with enough subtlety to avoid falling into the role of interrogator or publicist. We touched on feminism and discussed the different waves and what we thought they meant. And Ali told me about a “nice woke film” she had been watching, a description I hadn’t come across before — an early warning, perhaps, that I chose to ignore.
Ali was a highflier living in central London, an expensive part of the city, and had previously lived in America.
She told me about an incident she had working at her previous job for Goldman Sachs, in the US. Ali and a co-worker were collaborating on an ongoing project that required them to work closely with each other over a number of weeks. Both working late one evening, Ali took a restroom break. While in the restroom, her co-worker, with a stirring in his loins, followed Ali into the bathroom and professed his feelings for her and attempted a kiss. I think she said he was married…
She told the story in a way that was both steamy and untoward; of a situation that wasn’t surprising to her, given how closely they worked together and the furtive flirting common to office life. The restroom however, even a shiny Goldman Sachs one, wasn’t in her repertoire of places to make the beast with two backs.
The telling of her story was one of a woman in control of a situation, rather than a victim caught unaware by its predator. I asked her about any fallout from reporting him. There was no report. She set him straight and that was the end of it.
We met each other at a parade of local convenience shops, not far from where she lived, on the Southbank, near the Thames River. After a little confusion finding each other, and a phone call later, I saw a figure exuberantly calling me from across the street. And given my lack of success in the content-creation world, I was pretty sure it was Ali and not an adoring fan.
She was a little heavier than her photo, which didn’t bother me, and much prettier. The second time a date has been more attractive than her photos. She had long, jet-black hair, impossibly long eyelashes and an air of calmness that comes from being self-assured. I, on the contrary, was a tad sweaty from rushing to meet her on time and my usual marginally awkward self — a man confused by his limbs in resting state.
She was upbeat with big smiles and lively eyes. It was the beginning of a date full of promise and a little wonder. But the date giveth — and the date taketh! The initial mix of excitement and intrigue was short lived; it all but evaporated when we arrived at the river’s bank, replaced with the most uncomfortable feeling i’ve ever felt on a date.
Our date was in the midst of Covid, but the rules had been relaxed, and people were desperate to be free and feel part of something bigger than themselves.
London is a busy, densely-populated city. And in central London the nucleus of activity is packed even tighter with eager tourists and newcomers wanting to tick off famous landmarks on their itinerary, and drink in all the londony goodness.
Ali was immediately irritated by the flow of people. She complained about the odour of a guy in front of us (I think it was the smell from the hot-dog stand) and people not keeping the appropriate distance from her. She told me her friend had warned her she, Ali, will go crazy in London summertime because of the influx of tourists and population swell. I was about to find out how well her friend knew her.
To be clear, it wasn’t busy by London standards. Covid still had many people cautious and avoiding crowded areas.
By now her tone had completely changed and she was this irascible figure metaphorically swatting away interlopers. I remember making a joke, the content of which escapes me, that was met with, “is that supposed to be funny?” Tough crowd!
I was constantly being reminded to keep the Covid-gap distance between us. And we were only allowed to walk in tiny patches of sunlight across the Southbank, because she felt the cold intensely, while dodging pedestrians. We were inverted vampires in a crappy computer game where shade turned us to ice and human contact made us diseased. And given the high-rise buildings and the falling sun, the enjoyable walk I planned in my head turned into traversing a slither of sun-kissed street, back and fourth, as if in a relay event the rest of the team had forgot to show up for.
Her negativity was beginning to weigh on me.
We finally sat down on some park seats: she was, of course, in the sun, and I was five meters away in the shade. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried having a conversation with someone that distance from you, catapulting words at each others faces and nodding politely when you can’t make out what’s being said. It looks ridiculous. It is ridiculous! And I felt silly as people watched, confused.
I realised I was on a date with the eponymous princess from the tale The Princess and the Pea.
At one point I reached into my jacket for a tissue and a tub of hair wax fell out. I said to Ali, “You’re not supposed to see that…” I told her it was wax, and now she’s seen behind the magician’s curtain — the one thing she found amusing on the date. And then, as if possible, things went down hill from there.
I broached a story she had started to tell me on our phone conversation. It was an “incident” she had with a woman working in a supermarket. Ali had told the woman, who was stacking shelves, she had a problem with an item of food she had bought. The woman told her to speak to a “checkout girl.” And this is where things escalated. In Ali’s mind, it was unacceptable of the supermarket worker to use the term “checkout girl,” for there are male checkout workers as well. She was offended to the point of complaining to the store manager. I was curious to know if she thought the failure of the woman to use a sex-neutral term was a slippery slope to losing women’s suffrage. I kid!
We entered into, what I thought, was a spirited discussion regarding the woman’s use of the term “checkout girl.” I asked the age of the woman and was told she appeared to be in her 50’s — so someone who hasn’t grown up around the finer intricacies of P.C. language. I remarked on this and how language has changed. Ali told me, “there’s an internet; she can Google what’s correct,” which seemed a bit post hoc considering she had already used the term.
She said there’s no excuse for using the wrong terms in this day and age. At this point, I realised she had a mental watch-list of words she deemed as transgressions of P.C. language. And someone whose ideas have come to own her. I couldn’t reconcile in my mind why her work colleague had a free pass, but this woman’s solecism(?), faux pas(?) was met with such draconian outrage. So I decided to push forward, keeping the tone friendly.
“I’m sure the woman didn’t intend to offend anyone and it was a mistake,” I said.
She said it doesn’t matter!
“A person’s intent doesn’t matter?” I questioned.
Her heels firmly dug in, she said, “Intent is extremely hard to prove in a court of law” — and proceeded to tell me about a legal case where a man threw a child against a wall and the prosecution were unable to prove he intended to do it.
“I don’t think it’s about proving intent in a court of law; it’s a moral question. If intent doesn’t matter, should we hold an old lady who runs someone over because she didn’t see them walk into the road to the same standard as the enraged man who runs over his ex-partner in a fit of jealousy?”
By now her facial expression had morphed into a narrow-eyed, pursed-lipped teapot, whistling with steam. She was seething, but doing her best to mask her snarl and quivering eye.
Seeing how visibly angry she was, and worried she would vent spleen over me, I apologised and explained I occasionally have these conversations with friends. She spat at me, “well, maybe you should save those conversations for them!”
The tiny fissures between us had grown into deep cracks.
There was a frosty silence as we departed from the bench and walked towards the street. I think I asked her if she was okay… but my mind was dealing with the shock of how angry she became, making my memory a little sketchy.
We walked for a few more minutes, then I said, “look, I don’t think this is going to go anywhere with us.” This was the first time i’ve said this on a date before, but I couldn’t bare the awkwardness and was slightly pissed off at this point.
Visibly shocked, she responded , “OH!”
I thought this strange given how undeniably awful the date had gone. I at least thought we were in tune on how crappy and uncomfortable the situation was. She then said, “well, you’re not 5’10.” I said I am. And I went onto say, “well, you’re not —
“Let’s not start saying things about each other,” she said, “I don’t want to go down that road.”
I was going to say she’s not as nice a person as she was on the phone — nothing as base as attacking appearances, which I think she mistakenly anticipated I was going to.
She said, “well, i’m going to walk down this way.”
I said , “okay, i’m going to the station,” and muttered under my breath, “that was terrible!”
We both went our separate ways.
I was sour and angry! I had travelled an hour to feel persona non grata.
There was a Buddhist quote circling my mind: “holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” I wanted rid of these feelings of resentment I had, and quickly. My method for doing this, however, is not what Buddha had in mind.
I did what all grown-up men do when they feel like this: i messaged her to say our date was the worst date I have ever been on. And then I blocked her. A completely childish act, I know. I tried to justify my action by telling myself it was good for her to know; she can take stock and revaluate herself. Funny the stories we tell ourselves to protect the ego.
And that is my worst date — ever! My telling doesn’t do justice to the uncomfortableness of it all. The lesson, if there is one: take note of those early warning signs and act on them — don’t downgrade them to the not-urgent tray in your mind. You can save yourself time, money and a whole lot of uncomfortableness.
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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
What Does Being in Love and Loving Someone Really Mean? | My 9-Year-Old Accidentally Explained Why His Mom Divorced Me | The One Thing Men Want More Than Sex | The Internal Struggle Men Battle in Silence |
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