I stink at dating – always have. I sputter. I hyperventilate. I fail miserably every time.
I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties.
I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back. While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several).
But this time I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.” I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along.
The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less. You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blog posting.
I’m fourteen. My mom fixed me up. He spent the evening licking his lips and leering at my chest. I never let her forget it. (Count them: 25 words)
I once dated six men, all at one time. It was a Speed Date for 50-year-olds. Let’s just say, some people don’t improve with age. (Twenty-five again. Yeeha!)
These are two of my horror stories, one from each end of my life.
Here’s one more but it is not a horror story. It is my happy ending:
We met online and decided to meet in person at a baseball game. He proposed. I panicked. He was right. We married three months later.