Courting Disaster is Jackalope Ranch's weekly column of dating horror stories, observations, how-tos, and more by Katie Johnson. Names of ex-boyfriends, past hookups, and bad blind dates have been changed to protect the guilty.
They say there's someone for everyone.
Not true. Some people are dicks.
And, as someone who's seen a few dicks in her day, I can say they're pretty hard to love, let alone look at.
For some of us, there is a definite possibility that we will die alone -- unless we're willing to change our act or change what we're looking for. As I write this, a particular man comes to mind. Let's go ahead and call him Bigfoot.
He was around 6 feet 7 inches tall, and when he wasn't hunched over at his favorite coffee shop reading The Economist, he could be found wandering the woods with the one and only female who could stand him: his dog.
Like a good majority of my dates these days, we met at Lux. His opening line was asking me what books I had read. The smart-ass in my brain wanted to say Hop on Pop, but the shy, girlish me responded by name-dropping some assigned reading from high school.
Right then and there, my pretentious buzzer should have been going off. But what can I say? I have a weakness for tall men with strong jawlines. Thanks, DC Comics.
This man shared many traits with the elderly: irritability, confusion with recent pop culture references, and early bird dining hours. So on our first date, he arranged to eat dinner at 6 p.m.
I was 10 minutes late. I alerted him that I was running late, and he seemed understanding in his text responses. However, when I showed up, running, breathless, and clearly putting forth an effort to make up for lost time, he greeted me by saying that there were no hard feelings about my tardiness. In fact, he went on to say, he was beginning to think my gender wasn't able to read a watch or tell time because the girl he had just been on a date with right before this one had also been late.
Boy, was there so much wrong with that sentence. Not only was he saying that women couldn't tell time, he was also telling me that I was at least date number two for that evening. Was he being serious? Had I mistakenly signed up for an episode of MTV's Next? No, he was just a asshole. But because I am understanding to a fault, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Okay, fine, it was the jawline.
We went on three dates total. And for each date, he dominated 90 percent of the dinner discussion. It was like playing conversation tennis. Only rather than return the ball every time I served a question, he would catch it, hold on to it, and continue telling me chapters of his life story, which read like his favorite kind of book, a dusty old war novel.
In some ways I felt sorry for him. Here he was, a heterosexual man, and yet there seemed to be an underlying distaste for women in his behavior. He was certainly the tallest person in the room wherever we went, but he also considered himself to be the smartest, and he wanted a woman he considered equally intelligent. Problem for him was, any women with that level of smarts would never put up with his behavior.
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By the third date, I had had enough. I could name all of his relatives, where they lived, what they did, where he went to school, how he spent his free time, and yet he didn't know a single thing about me.
So when he finally took a break from monologuing on date three to ask me about myself, I was dumbfounded. In my pause, he made some snarky remark about me not being able to answer a simple question.
That's when I smiled, looked up at him, and said, "Oh no. It's not that I can't understand you. You just caught me off guard. I mean, you've just gone on and on about yourself these past few dates. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that you'd ask me a question." I gave a cute little laugh and he stared at me. I stared back. Safe to say, we never went out again.