It was always such a shame that when you broke my car door, I was your friend on Facebook. This irritated me to no end because I had all of this rage bottled up inside and I could simply not express it. Eventually, I submitted the story to My Very Worst Date and someday I will link to it.
I was thinking about my door recently after picking up my father from the airport. I neglected to inform him the passenger side door handle has been in a state of broke for some time. Obviously, he was inquisitive.
I let him know that you are the fire engine bringing up the rear of the asshole parade of guys I have dated. Except there is no Santa on your fire engine. No good tidings of a Merry Christmas. Just the burning shame of bad decision making.
I went out with you twice. Once we went to a local downtown area and walked around, had coffee and chatted. We drove separately to our second date, dinner and a movie. After dinner, during which you explained to me you had quit your job as a special ed teacher without having another job to replace it, we drove to the movie theater.
It was windy, late May or so and quite nice out. I didn’t particularly care to see Don’t Mess with the Zohan, but I’m not above it, either. I got out of my car and heard your car door SLAM. BANG. Right into the side of mine.
This goddamned idiot just dented my car, I thought and came around to the side.
You were sheepish and apologetic and I say, “Don’t worry, it’s alright.”
I touch the door to inspect the dent, which was minimal.
PING. AND A PIECE OF MY EVER-LOVING CAR FALLS OFF. A PIECE OF THE EFFING DOOR HANDLE.
I am mad. I should have just left. I should have just walked away and cut my losses.
I joked, “Is this how you impress all your dates?” It was a joke, because I don’t really think you impressed many dates.
Instead of walking away at this point, I went into the movie anyway. I don’t know why. I just don’t. Was this the desperation I had heard about. I wasn’t that desperate? Could you smell it on me that I was desperate? Oh God. I was desperate.
In the theater, you proceeded to touch me. My stiffened posture, I guess, was more alluring than I believed it would me. You know when they describe The Grinch? And how cuddly he is? That was what I was going for.
Nevertheless, your enthusiasm was startling. I’ve been on plenty of dates in my life and I had never met anyone like you. Not in a good way.
When you wanted to hold my hand, you wove it into you chubby, sweaty hand and took hold of it. I tried to get out of it, because I just wanted to go home. I was truly in awe and part of me wanted to find out if anyone could think that making a piece of my door handle ping off could make another person feel romantical.
I found my answer moments later when my hand was placed squarely on your junk. Perhaps you didn’t mean it, perhaps you did. I didn’t know what to do so I just sat there trying to get my hand back. This is part where my friends say, “How is it possible that you did not simply grab, twist and pull?” Or “I don’t even know you. You would never let someone get away with that.”
All my struggle was futile. An eternity later, you let go. My hand flew back into my side like a sling shot. You didn’t try it again.
Nor would you ever get the chance. I never called you again, did I? You know what, that felt good. I remember you trying to get in touch with me until you finally got the message. I DO NOT LIKE MEN WHO BREAK MY DOOR HANDLE AND THEN ATTEMPT TO HAVE ME MASSAGE THEIR BITS IN A PUBLIC PLACE. You’d think that was an unspoken, societal code. Not for you.
The best part is, you unfriended me on Facebook because you got married. That’s ok, because I got to tell my side of the story. I hope that you and your wife are happy, because I’m totally cuter.