Worst Date Ever

To this day, whenever somebody mentions P.J., my best friend Rachel still holds back the urge to strangle me. You see, P.J. could very well be the number one choice for the worst date ever, heading up the Guinness Book of World Records, the nightmares from hell story bank, the date ever">worst date ever gossip tale, and the fattest, smelliest, ugliest trombone player this side of Georgia has ever seen. Or the world, for that matter. And the ugliest fact about the whole matter is that P.J. was the blind date—the date nobody could screen beforehand, and the date I agreed to set her up with.

Now, let’s remember: It wasn’t as if my date was any better either. The washed-up rock star in the washed-up pop punk scene was hardly an intellectual stimulant or even a joy to look at. However, to college girls, washed-up rockers in washed-up genres are the coolest thing on the block, so I, being a college girl myself, fell into the mess and ending up wooing one at a bar in Athens, Georgia. I first noticed him behind the bar, sloshing drinks with grace, tucking his razor-gelled blonde hair behind his ears and pushing his Buddy Holly black glasses up his sweaty nose. I marveled at his tattoos and his delicately placed piercings, falling prey to the youthful mistake of wanting a rebel. We exchanged the typical amusing conversation, the soft laughter and elongated smiles, the dry, awkward coughs in moments of silence, the contrived compliments, the overcompensating bragging, and the witty banter for almost an entire evening. “You gotta be like the smartest girl I ever met,” he said, sending girly shivers down my naïve neck. Looking back, I am truly ashamed that I accepted the compliment, or even thought of it as a compliment in the first place. We arranged a date.

Staring into your cup can sometimes be a great comfort while you listen to someone talk about themselves for three hours straight.

Credit: Kristin Mock

Copyright: Kristin Mock