Everyone knows you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. Lord knows I puckered up a few times, but I’m proud to say I never got warts. And I never gave up hope. As Valentine’s Day is still a bit over a week away, I thought I’d share an anti-love story with you this week, and then next week I’ll share my real-life love story.
Sound like a plan? Just a heads up: I’ll be asking about yours too, so start mining the memories…
Because I don’t mind being the subject of your amusement/derision, I am going to give you the sad tale of my one and only blind date.
Let me preface this by reminding you, that I spent many, many years firmly ensconced in my spinsterhood. There were some, uh, dating dry spells. Many, many dating dry spells. This story takes place in the spring just after my first annual 29th birthday, a time so arid I could hear the air around me crackle….
A friend wanted to set me up on a blind date with the really cute new guy in her office. After some none to gentle prodding, I relented, and the numbers were exchanged.
I am sad to tell you that I can’t even remember my date’s name now (it has been more than a dozen years), but the events of that evening are indelibly etched in my mind.
First of all, he lived up to the hype. Hel-lo hottie man!
After a surreptitious Snoopy dance, we went to dinner at the local Mexican restaurant. The plan was to go to a comedy club for the 9PM show, but we were early, so went to the bar next door to pass the time.
I would love to blame the booze for what happened next, but even I am not that much of a lightweight. Stone cold sober, we were walking the approximately 100 yards from the bar to the comedy club when I tripped.
Nothing at all.
Did I stumble a little? Did I flail and catch myself? Did my knight in a black leather jacket catch me and press me to his manly chest?
I took a flying header on the sidewalk just outside of the club, landing on my arm and bouncing my forehead off concrete. The fall itself was so spectacular, that people waiting in line for the club left the line and hurried over to help me up while my date stood staring at the clumsy lump on the ground.
Of course, I was mortified. I brushed myself off, insisting that I was fine and trying to laugh about it. Did I mention it had been a couple of years since I dated? Yeah…So…The date must go on!
Fighting back tears of pain and humiliation, I excused myself to the ladies room to clean up where I promptly fell apart. The other women in the room, some of whom had witnessed my Chevy Chase pratfall, were sympathetic and consoling. Luckily, many of them worked at the day spa that occupied space in the same strip mall. Cool paper towels were pressed to the growing knot on my head. They whipped out massive cosmetic bags and fixed my face. My hair was combed to cover the lump. Finally, I was handed a cup of ice water and given a gentle shove back out into the lion’s den.
There were three comedians scheduled that night. We laughed along with the crowd, but I noticed that my head wasn’t what was bothering me as much as my growing inability to lift my left arm to applaud. By the time the last guy was finished, I’d also lost my ability to keep up any pretense.
When my date asked if I wanted to go somewhere else, I told him that I really didn’t feel well, and that I thought I should call it a night. Oddly enough, he seemed slightly peeved. Not so strange was the fact that I didn’t care.
My roommate was staying at her boyfriend’s that night, so I called her and sobbed the entire story—leading with the headline, “I think I broke my arm!”
She assured me that it was probably just a sprain and told me I should ice it, elevate it, and if it wasn’t better by morning, she would take me to the emergency room. Since it was already after 1am, I thought that it seemed reasonable. I propped my arm on the extra pillow, plopped an ice pack on it and tried to sleep.
By 6am, I was calling her back and saying, “I’m sorry, but I think I need you to take me to get an x-ray.” We spent a lovely morning hanging out in the waiting room, my arm supported by a makeshift sling created by a chiffon scarf patterned with sailboats which I paddled up the river Denial.
When the x-ray tech told me to turn my arm over for another angle and I almost peed down my leg. Finally convinced that it was indeed broken, I was plastered up, given a prescription for Vicodin, and sent on my merry way. The girlfriend who instigated the set up and my faithful roomie were at my side for the rest of the weekend.
Mr. Blinddateman? Never heard from him again.
When my friend saw him at work the following Monday, she mentioned something about my arm being broken.
His response? “Wow, really? Well, she did fall really hard.”
My thought? “Luckily, it wasn’t for you.”
The moral of the story?
Blind dates can be hazardous to your health.
Just a reminder.
Okay, your turn! Tell me your worst date scenario. Ready? Go!