Dating is like blindly reaching into the candy bowl on your grandmother’s coffee table. She has all sorts of tasty treats: jolly ranchers, miniature chocolate bars, jelly beans, Werther’s Originals, those strawberry candies that taste like cough syrup, etc. You eagerly reach your hand into the depths of sugary sweetness hoping for a cherry jolly rancher or a piece of dark chocolate. You swivel and swirl, feeling around, relying on your keen sense of touch. Finally, your hand emerges, tightly clutching the brief surge of energy that will hopefully get you through your grandmother’s incoherent mutterings about politics and her neighbors “attractive” son. You look down, salivating as your eyes slowly reach the strawberry candy. Apparently, your sense of touch isn’t all that keen after all.

My dating life thus far has been exactly like reaching into grandmother’s communal candy dish. Very rarely have I been lucky enough to pick a delectable treat. Most times I end up with a Werther’s Originals, even though they had the promise of magically gaining a blast of fruity flavor. However, one date stands out amongst the rest … the strawberry candy. I’m not entirely sure I can call it a date, and here’s why.

Everything seemed normal. I had been talking with this guy off and on for about a month, and finally decided to give into his incessant inquiries about a date. We settled on a location and a reasonable time to make acquaintance. The day arrived, and I just had a feeling. My intuition took over, and I felt that I should skip the date. Something felt off and maybe even a tad unsettling, but the writer in me reared her greedy little head looking for a juicy story to tell. You lucky readers are very welcome for the “date” I had to endure to get this tale.

I arrived at the restaurant of his choosing, and upon entering, he asked whether I would like to sit at the bar or in a booth. I liked that he asked as opposed to just choosing for me. I went to respond by saying that it really didn’t matter, but before I could get through half a sentence, he said, “We’re sitting in a booth.” I guess he really didn’t care about my preference, which was only made clearer as the dreadful hour continued. We sat down, and as I was reading over the menu (because I hadn’t eaten there before,) I felt his eyes boring into me as I perused entrée options. It was unsettling, and if that didn’t set the tone for the rest of the encounter, it was most definitely the fact that he was dressed like a 12-year-old boy circa 2009: Hollister flannel and probably the jeans to match.

We ordered, and it is imperative that you attentive readers remember that he specifically asked for French fries on the side. Conversation continued in a one-sided manner. I think during the precise 60 minutes I sat across from this man’s petite frame I spoke three times. The first was a brief summary of my day. The second was in response to the falsely snobbish assumption that I knew nothing about the military. And the third was my rejection of his premature supposition that there would be plans after the agreed upon date.

Once our meals arrived, this “gentleman” talked at me for an hour, winning the award for the worst date of my entire life. He managed to break every rule of dating etiquette in a short amount of time. He spent much of his allotted hour complaining about familial problems, mental issues, and an ex-girlfriend who stopped responding to him, all the while reassuring me that he is not one to complain. He brought up how much money he makes, and indirectly hinted at the fact that he can’t keep a job due to his overbearing pretention. His voice carried in the small restaurant considering he spoke at such a high decibel, and every other sentence contained an expletive, most beginning with the letter “f.” I sat with an indifferent expression, keeping my facial muscles at bay for fear that one slight twitch of the eyebrow or eye roll would set him off.

Then the semi-masculine figure sitting across from me with a high-pitched squeak of a tone looked to his right at the French fries sitting next to him. He complained about the proximity of the potatoes to his salad because he doesn’t eat carbs. He couldn’t fathom why the waitress would place them so close to his plate. I would now like everyone to refer to the part of the tale that mentions his precise ordering of French fries. He clearly ordered them, and throughout his meal, he referenced them as if the waitress planted them on the edge of table to trick him into eating carbs. I would also like to mention that this doofus, after describing his brief stint of homelessness without prompt from me, gave an in-depth play-by-play of his daily eating habits. I figured because he strayed from carbs that he was a health enthusiast; but instead, I learned that his diet consists of a Slim Jim, string cheese, and an energy drink.

If this doesn’t make him seem like a winner and a true gentleman, how he ended our encounter sure will. As I was making it completely obvious that I wanted to go home, curl up with a book and drink my coffee, he felt it appropriate to make a racist joke, loudly I might add. I was as red as a tomato, and after he walked me to my car, awkwardly hugging my nonreceptive frame, I hopped in, revved the engine, and sped towards the setting sun. I called my mother to relay the horrifyingly true experience.

The next day, I found myself dodging messages from this looney tune left and right, forgetting that I had my read receipts on. The third message served as a warning of sorts, claiming that I had clearly not gotten his message the day prior about wasting his time by not answering him right away. In my defense, I was busy and had no desire to ever see his smug face again. We sparred a little via text, and after he called me a few unsavory names, I blocked his, because frankly, I deserve better. All in all, at least I gained a blog out of the experience.

I will never forget this mediocre man; he made me realize my own self-worth while subsequently giving me a frame of reference so that I could heed all future suitors, weeding out those lousy minnows. While dating is like reaching into grandma’s collection of candy, hopefully one day the options change, and finding someone isn’t as difficult. If I could skip the dating stage of life, I would; but for now, I’ll trudge onward because awful dating stories are better than no dating stories at all.