You know that exact moment when you realize you’ve had too much to drink? No? Me neither.
In hindsight, I should’ve realized I’d had too much to drink at some point during a very sloppy make out with my friend’s brother at a bar. Worse yet, my drunk-self thought it’d be a good idea to agree to go on a date with this guy… Let’s call him Dan.
Dan invited me to an Irish folk concert in Annapolis, Maryland—you know, a casual hour long drive from my house—and told me we’d be seeing said concert with his friend and his friend’s latest Tinder girlfriend. K.
I got in his car in my cute yet casual ensemble, obviously trying to look like I wasn’t trying to look like I was trying. The car reeked of cigarette smoke, the background music was a weird folk-meets-screamo combination, and our conversation was less engaging than those I’ve had with my childhood guinea pig.
Around minute 8 of 60, I could already tell it was going to be a long night. And this is just counting down the minutes of the car ride alone.
We parked—finally—and got out to meet his friend at a nearby bar. Just as we approached the door to the bar, he offhandedly mentioned that the night’s “date group” had grown. Now we have Dan’s friend and his Tinder girl, a married couple, an engaged couple…and us on our first date. All of us. Here, in Annapolis, for an Irish folk concert.
“I’m open-minded,” I lied to myself. “Totally open-minded.” But I despised Dan’s friends. They weren’t exactly my type of people *cough*Republican*cough* but things were going okay until one of his friends who was a Maryland cop said, “There is literally nothing that stands between me and putting someone in handcuffs.” So that was good.
The real punch to the gut: Dan didn’t even pay for my cheap Mexican dinner, which like, come on.
Note: We still haven’t even made it to the concert.
Once at the actual venue, we realized it was a seated concert. Dan and I sat with the engaged couple, while the married couple and dating couple sat at two tables far away. Turns out, it didn’t matter that they weren’t together because they all had a group text that they used throughout the entire THREE HOUR concert.
Dan would occasionally laugh at whatever was going on in this exclusive group message, but not once did he include me in what was being said. Naturally, I turned it into a drinking game.
One text = one drink, and repeat. Drunk me, and a very, very sober Dan. Good.
He repeatedly excused himself to go to the bathroom, each time veering off at the last second towards the door outside to smoke a cigarette. The sneakiness wasn’t necessary—I didn’t give a shit that he smoked, not to mention I had already Sherlock-ed his smoking habit out from the smell of his car.
Finally, dear God, finally, after a THIRD encore, the concert ended and we drove the hour back to my apartment. I threw myself out of the car, my apartment keys already in my hand, and we did not kiss goodnight.
A few nights later I went to the same bar where we had first met (although technically I don’t remember that first drunken makeout that led to our doomed date, so “met” is a relative term). Dan was there, and I was about as awkward as someone trying to open a ketchup bottle in the first half of an infomercial.
He approached me and said, “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t kiss you because I didn’t want you to think that that was all I was after.”
Please, as if our date was good enough to warrant a kiss at all.
Guest poster E
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