Since being single again, downloading bumble and deleting it about 6 times in a row, I decided to get back on the horse. Despite feeling like the horse has 3 legs, fag burns all over it and mange.
Through this I matched with a lovely young man, lets call him Chad. He was texting me first every day over Christmas and I’d already cancelled one coffee date with him because I had a slight meltdown over the fact that he could be a complete and utter bullshitter. I told him as much, in the interest of honesty and he was lovely about it. ‘Take all the time you need’ he said.
Turns out that time was like … two more days.
So we arranged to meet for a drink and I was feeling pretty nervous. I’ll admit it, I’d built it up in my head. I’d gone full Mark from peep show and convinced myself he was ‘the one’. Spoiler: He was not the one.
As soon as I walked in, I realised I’d been mis-sold. This man was lanky, not svelte. Sans instagram filters it is as all just a bit… rough around the edges. Whispy beard, pitted skin. I’m not body shaming, but I’ve packed on a bit of timber over the holiday period and if i can’t see my own ribs, there’s no way I want to see his.
I also made a rookie first date mistake, which is never wear clothes you aren’t comfortable in: there’s enough to worry about without squirming about due to ill fitting garms. Despite the fact I ripped my favourite vintage sheepskin jacket under the armpit I decided no other jacket would do. I ripped it by hulking out of it while I was burying my housemates dead rabbit in the wintery earth. (Don’t ask)
Being of the blue Peter generation I was convinced that a good old fashioned tube of super glue could fix that rip, especially as trying to drive a needle through two layers of thick sheepskin is near impossible. “Get it professionally fixed!” I hear you shout. Pfffft yeah, good one.
So I turn up to the date feeling and looking pretty fly (whilst not moving my right arm above the elbow).
I smile, say hi, and as I take my jacket off, hear an almighty “SCCHHRRRR!”
Me: “That was my jacket. My jacket just ripped. I super glued it. I ripped when I was burying a dead rabbit.”
Him: “oh, haha, I didn’t hear anything”
He bought the first drinks before I even got there which was sweet but due to nerves and the desire to slap on some wine goggles pronto, I was hoovering my merlot like a dyson on crack. I could see him clocking this clear imbalance in consumption and I offered to buy the next round.
“Another wine?” I said
“Another one? oh yeah sure”
I thought, “I don’t know about you pal, but I feel like about as awkward as a pork pie at a Jewish wedding. If you think I’m doing this any less drunk, you’re sadly mistaken.”
After the second drink is bone dry, he continues making small talk with me. I nod politely, not really listening and glance at the empty glasses. He continues filling the silence… I continue eyeballing the glasses. I can’t offer to buy ANOTHER round. He isn’t offering… the awkwardness is hitting fever pitch. Suddenly I crack.
“Welllll it’s getting on” (it’s 8pm) “I better get an uber home”
He seems shocked but politely walks me outside to wait for my taxi.
I’m seconds away from escaping this monumental waste of my Friday and as my uber pulls up I give him a quick perfunctory hug goodbye. SCHHRRRRCCHH. That’s the sleeve officially fucked. I can’t even be bothered to make an excuse. I just walk towards the taxi, away from the driest two hours I’ve had in some time, with the rain and wind spattering onto my now freezing and exposed shoulder.