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The Tragic Dating Chronicles of a Nerd in the City


Volume 1: The first bad date

I am the textbook definition of a late bloomer. It could be due to some combination of my extremely sheltered childhood and my natural obliviousness to social cues, but I didn’t go on my first date until college. (or have a boyfriend, or even my first kiss). And maybe all of this is why I managed, and continue to manage, to skip the ‘netflix and chill’/ ‘hanging out’ vagaries that have come to define millennial dating. In many ways, I’ve been extremely lucky. Although I’d had dates that were unremarkable, I never had one I would distinctly label as bad.

And then one day it all changed. It was senior year of college and I desperately went to the career fair hoping to find employment and some kind of direction for my life. I began chatting it up with a recruiter at a company and it was going fairly well. He seemed interested in my background and skills. I began to hand over my resume when he stopped me and informed me that he wasn’t a recruiter at all; just a grad student also seeking employment. This should’ve been (and actually was) a big red flag, but a mutual friend convinced me to give him a shot, so I gave him my number.

A few days later he came to pick me up, and after a few minutes with him, it was clear he was a total creep. Furthermore, he was not a native of the city and had no plan and no idea of where to take us to eat. (this was pre-Yelp ya’ll). So here I was starving, and the only place we could find to eat was IHOP. So after a romantic meal of pancakes and bacon, we ended up strolling hand in hand through Academy. (yeah, the sports place.) and normally I’m enough of a weirdo to find that quirky and charming, but the fact that he was a total creeper ruined the vibe. and I can’t say exactly what it was that made him so creepy; I guess sometimes you meet someone and you slowly get an increasingly gnawing suspicion that he or she is a serial killer. anyways, the final icing on the lame date cake was a trip to Books-a-Million. So the guy, who by then had figured out that he pretty much bombed the date, decided to buy me a book I’d been eyeing. I never talked to the guy again, and honestly don’t even remember his name, but at least I got a book out the deal. The moral of this story is: never give your number to the creepy guy at the career fair. It will not end with employment.

At any rate, when I tell people about my dates they generally laugh and tell me I need to publish a book. So instead I’ll just share these chronicles with you in the hopes that it keeps Ronnie from firing me. You’re welcome.

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