Worst Date Ever
Lying about one’s age (while one is underage) and choosing to pursue an older guy based on the hotness factor of his car is generally not a great way to start off a relationship or a first date. I met “Duane” at church; he was visiting from Canada and while he was really flirting with me, I was completely uninterested until I saw his new black Mustang convertible with a kick-ass stereo system and leather interior. Now that was love at first sight. Perhaps Duane wasn’t eye-candy or intellectually stimulating . . . but, that car!
Duane was heading back to Saskatoon that night and he asked me to go to dinner with him. But then he asked the dreaded question: How old are you? Only Hamlet could truly empathize with my dilemma – to lie or not to lie? To risk never feeling the caress of that leather interior? To sacrifice bragging rights in the high school cafeteria tomorrow? So that I didn’t technically lie, I said that I was a sophomore; let him assume that meant I was a sophomore in college.
At the restaurant, we started doing the “getting to know you” ordeal and Duane really opened up. Before the chips and salsa even arrived, Duane told me all about his contracting business in Saskatoon. He also told me that he intended on getting married in the next six months. I asked who the lucky girl was and he looked at me quite seriously and said, “You.” I laughed and said, no, really – who is the lucky girl? That is when Duane took my hand, kissed it, and said, “I really have a good feeling about us.”
If that were not enough to make one run, not walk, to the nearest emergency exit, Duane had even more delightful tidbits to express about “our” future: – He wanted to build his wife (me) a house; he would design the whole of the house, but I could design the kitchen and the bedroom as that is where I “would be spending most of my time.” – He wanted to have a little girl within the first year; we would name her Christina. – He didn’t want his wife to work; so, I would need to stop going to college and plan on moving to Saskatoon that summer. – He wanted his mother to live with us and help me “adjust” during our first year of marriage.
At this point, I was using my handy-dandy high school math skills to calculate the distance from our table to the bathroom and wondered how difficult it was to climb out of the bathroom window. Television shows and movies made it look really easy. He was still going on and on about the nursery when I couldn’t take it anymore and I told him I was sick and needed to go home immediately. Luckily, he did, but the story doesn’t end there.
About one week later, letters started arriving in the mail from Duane. These letters were sensitive, endearing, loving, and waxed poetic about our future. I finally decided to put a bullet through the very heart of our “relationship” and I wrote him a letter that would have made any other man run the other direction: “I’m only 15; I’m sorry I lied. It was nice knowing you. Goodbye.” But, Duane was not any other man.
Over Memorial Day weekend, our family was making plans and I was personally celebrating because Stalker Duane was thankfully out of my life. I made new vows never to lie about my age again, even if the guy was driving a Corvette, Mercedes, or BMW. Life was good. At around 6 PM., we heard a knock on the door and before we could even answer it, Duane stepped in and said, “Surprise! I hope you made enough dinner for me!”
The deal about being 15 is that my mom had a tiny little rule: I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16. Translation? My parents had no idea who this man was or why he was standing in our house. I was staring, horrified, at this creature I thought I had effectively obliterated from my life and the flight or fight impulse was really kicking into gear. Questions raced through my mind: how to explain this to mom and dad, what was Duane doing here, what was I going to do with him now that he was here . . .
Stalker Duane must have sensed some confusion because he went over, shook my parent’s hands, and said, “Hello! I’m the friend that Donna met at church awhile ago. She and I have been exchanging letters and since I had no plans for the weekend, I thought I would surprise her.” Surprise is one word for it; I had a few others.
Being a gracious hostess, my mom invited him in and gave me a look that said, “We’ll talk later. Plan on being grounded for the next six years.” Duane outlined his plans for the weekend and since he was my guest, I had to entertain him. He wanted to go to a local amusement park, dinner, swimming, picnic on the lake, boating . . . all my plans for a lovely, stress-free weekend were pronounced dead on our kitchen table.
That night, I endured a very uncomfortable conversation with my parents, confessed, and begged for them to “punish me” by sending him home immediately. Because they secretly hated me and wanted to watch me suffer, they said they would not in the name of “it’s not good manners.” The next morning dawned without mercy and I faced a day at the amusement park with Stalker Duane.
And, did I mention the car? Good ol’ Duane showed up at my house not in the phat-Mustang, but a rusted, paint-peeling Brady wagon that belched and farted black smoke every five miles. The stereo system was non-existent and I seriously wondered whether we would make it to the amusement park. I had lied about my age, endured dinner, and I was stuck with him for three days for this?! He said the other car was “in the shop.”
At the amusement park, I kept a yard-stick length between the two of us and I would not talk to him unless he asked me a direct question. When I saw friends up ahead, I ducked inside a store and he had to come looking for me. I ordered an abundance of the most expensive items on the menu and conveniently left when it was time to pay. I also didn’t eat even half of what I had ordered. When he took off his outer T-shirt (too hot) and revealed a wife-beater tank top and hairy-mammoth chest and arms, I nearly lost my lunch and told him, “You know, they have dress codes here at the park. I don’t think you’re allowed to wear that here.” When he asked me if I wanted to go on the Lover’s Lane boat trip, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “You’ve got to be kidding.” When he got a little “friendly” on one of the rides and tried to kiss me, I said, “I’m underage and that’s considered statuatory rape in Idaho.” A little bitchy? Perhaps. But, I was in survival mode and being nice hadn’t worked effectively.
By early afternoon, the diva-bitch mode was finally working its magic and he decided we could go home. At home, our TV remote didn’t work and my mom made me promise that I would “entertain” our guest nicely. Duane decided he wanted to watch TV. Since my mother was watching, I’m sure he figured out that I would have to be “nice” to him and he got a little revenge. Every time he wanted the channel changed, he would say, “Would you be a dear and just change the channel for me? I want to see what’s on.” So, I got to be his human remote for the rest of the afternoon. Next, he was “hungry.” I had to make him four different sandwiches before I did it “just right” for his delicate, Neanderthal taste buds. On the fourth one, however, I had put a little jalapeno jelly in the mayo. Wonder if that had anything to do with it?
Our antics continued for the rest of the weekend. I finally made him so miserable that he left on Sunday, instead of Monday. If my mom was around, he knew he was safe and he made me miserable because I had to “make nice.” If my mom was not around, I made him as uncomfortable as possible. I never heard from him again, for which I’m grateful. I’m sure our non-existent little daughter, Christina, is grateful, as well.
