I knew I shouldn't have been dating Jamie the first time he drove me home. We got into his car -- a rarity in this city -- and, as I leaned over to fasten my seatbelt, he leaned over to light the candle he keeps aflame in his cup holder every time he drives.
That was on our first date.
Well, second, if you count the time I dragged my two best friends out to Bushwick to see him at a death metal show as a date. Or, the third, I guess, since our first meeting occurred when we were sharing a table at a tea shop, where we talked for two hours and, in that time, learned more about each other than I'd probably ever known about my boyfriend from college.
But, that's not the point -- let's get back to the candle situation.
The fact that he drives with a lit candle in his car means if Jamie and I had gotten into a fender bender during our quick car ride, we would have literally burst into flames.
I'm telling this story so you can put a gauge on the kind of weird date situations I find myself in. This is because I recently went on what I consider to be the worst date of my life. As the above anecdote illustrates, this is coming from someone who was one hidden stop sign away from being set on fire in Brooklyn AND who also once had a first Tinder date tell her he couldn't wait to go home and touch himself while thinking about her.
So, yeah -- this one was pretty bad.
The entire predicament started on a Saturday morning when a friend from college came into town and wanted to get brunch with all the fellow Cardinals who now reside in New York City. This sounds like it would be easy, but attempting to get together with five hungover 23-year-olds is actually among the more impossible tasks I have tried to complete.
After no less than two people had vomited from the night before (#BALLSOHARD), a group of us found ourselves at a restaurant called The Blind Pig for brunch. None of us had ever been there, but it was central to all of our locations and, more importantly, they had bottomless mimosas and Bloody Mary’s.
Bottomless brunch is only supposed to go on for a maximum of two hours, but whether it was because the waitress thought we were funny or because we kept moving seats, our bottomless drinks lasted from noon until five. During this time, we caught up on each others lives, talked about all the incredible memories we had at Ball State and (maybe) got a little bit drunk.
Around the same time I sent a text to all my best friends in Indiana telling them (and I quote) “I’m at brunch at The Blind Pig, but there are no pigs and no one is blind,” our waitress finally realized we had overstayed our welcome by quite a few hours. Luckily, our friend who had come to visit for the weekend was staying at an apartment close by, so we trekked the few avenues up to his place.
The man whose apartment we were in wasn’t there when we arrived -- he was watching some sort of sports game at a bar with a few friends -- but I could tell him and I were going to get along because in his bedroom, he had a framed portrait of Kanye West. About an hour after we’d been at this apartment, the front door opened and, after scrambling to get off the bed from where I’d been taking a short nap, I ran directly into the man I’d later have the worst date of my life with.
Of course, it wasn’t the man whose bed I had just been previously napping in, despite never meeting him. Obviously not -- that man had a framed photo of Kanye on his wall AND kept this photo in storage so it wouldn’t get ruined.
My life in one photo
No, the man I’d later have the worst date of my life with was his friend. After we’d all introduced ourselves, wine had been poured and, twenty minutes later, when Zach and I had to laughingly confirm we are not, in fact, dating, we all went up to the roof to overlook the city. But, it was only after Zach and I had very much made it clear we were both very much single when the guy I’d have a terrible date with began talking to me.
This guy -- we'll call him Sampson -- was not my type at all and I was hyper-aware of that when we started talking. Despite this, I decided to give him a chance, mostly because since I've moved to NYC, my type has been tall, skinny hipsters who look like replicas of my ex-boyfriend and 30-year-old skateboarders with massive drug problems.
Because I am single, it's clear neither of those have been working out very well.
Anyway, I knew Sampson found me charming. This is because he told me he found me charming and, also, that he could marry me (more on that later). Perhaps this is because I am a very charming person when I've been drinking all day, but I also have a strong suspicion it had to do with Goldfish.
For some background information, I love Goldfish. Not the actual fish -- my fish, Kanye, died a mere ten days after I purchased him at PetCo -- but the snack food. Here’s an example:
One night, I was at a bar in East Village, drinking a beer alone after a long day of work when an attractive man began talking to me. We were getting along pretty well and had mutual things in common, including being born in the same hospital. After a few rounds of drinks, the man gave me a proposition -- he told me he was a millionaire, was attracted to me and wanted to take me to a hotel, where we could rent a suite, get a fancy breakfast in the morning and wear fuzzy robes all day.
Partly due to my sheer disbelief that someone also born in Nyack Hospital could possibly be a millionaire and my vague dislike for breakfast food (and because I didn't want to end up murdered), but also because I really, really have a strong obsession with Goldfish, I did not wake up the next morning in a suite overlooking Manhattan while wearing a fuzzy robe.
I woke up like this.
#FLAWLESS
I have never been happier.
At some point on that Saturday night, I recounted the above story for Sampson. He stared at me, then grabbed my hand and told me I was wife-material.
(I'm not sure what kind of wife Sampson is going for).
I wasn't expecting that reaction and, while I was a little put off by the comment, I shrugged it off and continued on with the evening.
Our plans for the night included grabbing another drink at a bar, then going to see a free show for a band Chelsea knew from out west. But, somehow, everyone left -- Sampson got my number, then got weird and disappeared, Zach had vanished in the middle of the evening and I’m still not entirely sure where my friend from college and the strongly-obsessed Kanye man ended up.
Chelsea and I still wanted to go to the concert, which was amazing, and it was the perfect ending to such a fun day. After the show, we got grilled cheese with the band and it was such a good meal, the moment it ended will probably forever be ranked as one of the top ten emotional moments of my life. Really, it was just a wonderful, wonderful night (and, a wonderful, wonderful sandwich).
Now, it should be noted Zach has a habit of Irish-exiting, like, literally every single time we ever go anywhere together. Whether that's leaving me with a lot of hipsters with man-buns in the East Village (not complaining) or rushing out of the restaurant after ruining my second date with a guy (complaining), he always leaves the establishment before me. That’s why it didn’t bother me when I couldn’t find him at the bar before we were going to go to the concert -- it’s just a thing that happens all the time. Still, despite this, here's how I know Zach is one of my best friends.
The morning after The Blind Pig brunch/roof/concert/grilled cheese escapade, I woke up in my bed and was 99% sure I was dying. This is because I've found hangovers at 23 are the actual worst. On top of my pounding headache and severe dehydration, my hair had gotten caught in the tiny fan I keep by my bed at night and, also, I did not wake up surrounded by Goldfish. This was worse than the only other time I woke up and thought I was dying, which was when the yoga instructor and I fell asleep and, when he flexed his bicep in his sleep, he unknowingly put me into a chokehold. (I thought he was kidding around -- he wasn’t… he was just very much asleep). Still, the pain of the hangover I woke up with that Sunday morning was worse than being accidentally choked out by a man and, if I hadn’t had already made plans with a friend I hadn’t seen in over five years, it’s unlikely I ever would have gotten out of bed that day.
But, instead, I made myself be an adult, met my friend and had an absolutely lovely day walking around Central Park. After our adventure, I got onto the subway to go back to the UES and, when I got off, it was pouring rain. Luckily, Zach’s new apartment is not only in between a pizza place and a puppy window, but it’s also right next to my subway stop. I ran to his place and asked him to please let me inside.
Because he doesn't yet have a real bed or a real couch, Zach and I sat on the air mattress in his living room. We soon found that even sitting was too much of a task for us and eventually found ourselves laying on the mattress, both looking up at the ceiling (with multiple pillows in between us because, seriously everyone, we are not dating). It was then when we began talking about how the rest of our nights had gone.
"Sampson loved you," he told me from across our pillow barrier. I sighed audibly from the other side.
"I know," I told him, as I recounted the Goldfish/marriage scenario. "He told me not to be surprised if he brings a ring on our first date." In what was likely the most physical activity Zach exerted that day, he sat up from the air mattress forcefully and alarmed.
"That's weird as hell," he said, as he grabbed his head in pain from moving too fast. I agreed with him absolutely, then we high-fived, ordered a pizza and listened to JoJo while I told him about how I'd somehow found a Goldfish in my bra that morning… even though I hadn't eaten Goldfish since Friday night. (That is a very real, very true thing that happened to me for anyone who thinks we are living glamorous New York City lives).
Anyway, even though Zach and I both thought Sampson had come over a little strong with things like the marriage comment, I decided to still give him a chance, mostly because he wasn’t a drug dealing skateboarder and genuinely did seem to think I was charming. Plus, it would fulfill my goal and requirement of doing something past my bedtime of 10:30 once a week, so when he asked me out, we made plans to get dinner on a Wednesday.
Wednesday came around and what was supposed to be dinner ended up being meeting his co-workers at a bar. Which, in all honestly, I was pretty stoked about because I love making new friends and the girls we had met up with were very cool. But, again, I wasn’t super attracted to Sampson, so despite the fun I was having with his friends, I was slightly alarmed when he kept putting his hand on my leg, calling me “Babe,” and insistently asking if I wanted to leave.
(It was at this point of the night I text Zach and Ashley from the bathroom, letting them know he'd called me "Babe" three times, but was also a fan of unlimited appetizers from TGI Fridays. Considering unlimited appetizers from TGI Fridays are Zach's favorite thing in maybe the entire world, he was very conflicted as to whether I should continue the date).
Though every time Sampson said he wanted to leave, he was clearly referring to his apartment, I pretended to be ignorant to that fact and, instead, took him to The Pony Bar, a craft beer place with a rotating selection of fantastic beers that has a location on the UES. While the two of us were there, our conversation was enjoyable. He seemed like a nice guy, we had a few things in common, but I just still wasn’t feeling it -- especially after he tried to order a cocktail at The Pony Bar which, to me, is the equivalent of when I told someone I loved Kanye West and he said his favorite album was “808s and Heartbreak.” So, when it began to approach midnight, I decided I was tired and done and more than ready to go home.
If the date had ended there, it would have been fine -- not necessarily good, but not necessarily bad and perhaps Sampson and I would have became friends and Zach finally would have had someone to go to TGI Fridays with, since I vehemently refuse to go, citing the fact we live in New York City as enough to avoid chain restaurants.
Anyway, I insisted on paying for our beers and, as I got my card back from the bartender, Sampson made another comment about me spending the night at his apartment. Again, I refused and then he said the words I'm sure he hoped to be convincing, but instead, stopped me cold:
"You know, I won't think you're a slut if you come home with me on the first date."
Let me tell you something -- I do not believe in the word "slut." I don't believe it's a thing that exists. I've gotten in many, many arguments about this, whether those be with friends, boyfriends or complete strangers. And, that's because I'm a firm believer if someone of any gender wants to have safe, consensual sex, they can and should without having labels attached to them.
Sampson had already been losing me fast when he'd started in on his attempts to take me home, but after he uttered that sentence, it was over. The Pony Bar was directly in between our two apartments and, as kindly as I could, I suggested we part ways.
He did not like that.
Instead of accepting the night had ended, Sampson began to tell me that splitting up was going to be a problem because he didn't like sleeping alone. I, on the other hand, love sleeping alone because my apartment is basically as hot as a Bikram studio and I'd rather share my bed any day with a package of Goldfish than a man I'm just not that into. When it became clear I was not going to change my mind, Sampson began -- I kid you not -- pouting like a child.
Because I have absolutely no time for child-like behavior and, also, because I had a yoga class that started in less than six hours, I literally said "This was the worst date of my life," then left him on the curb and began walking back to my apartment.
I'd reached the cross-street of my home when Sampson caught up to me. He grabbed my hand and started pointing out other bars we needed to go to, still insisting the night shouldn't end and we should end up together. Every time I refused, he would suggest another bar, never taking no as an acceptable answer.
While this was happening, I glanced up at the crosswalk sign and saw the light was three seconds from turning green. I swiftly pulled my hand out of his, then promptly ran across the street, knowing he wouldn't be able to follow me with the oncoming traffic. From behind me on the corner, I could hear him saying, "You don't want to do that!"
To which I replied: "Yeah, I f---ing do."
Because no means no.
No does not mean "maybe" or "let's get another drink" or "I don't sleep alone." And, while I have to be honest that there was no part in the night where I felt concerned or worried he would be able to overtake me -- not to brag, but I have a pretty stellar roundhouse kick -- the fact Sampson wouldn't take no as an answer was completely disturbing, so much so that I promptly burst into tears the moment my apartment door had closed.
I was horrified the next morning to wake up from a text from Sampson, suggesting we do that again sometime. It shocked me he thought his behavior the night before had been reasonable, that the date that ended with me basically running into traffic to get away from him had gone well.
Obviously, I did not reply.
A few days after my disastrous date, my friend from high school spent the night on my couch. We'd been out on the UWS and, considering he lives far into Brooklyn, the trek across town to my apartment seemed much less daunting then him traveling all the way home. The next morning before he left, we were chatting about the pile of books I had on my nightstand, one of which is Missoula: Rape and the Justice System in a College Town by Jon Krakauer. If you haven't read it, it's a devastating journalistic account of the prevalence of rape and sexual assault within a college community (and I highly, highly suggest reading it).
I had just finished the book and, as it would turn out, my friend had, too (which, to go off on a not-so-secret tangent, I was very stoked we were on the same book wave-length. Five years earlier, I had read Infinite Jest in a months time because he had suggested it to me. Do you know how hard it is to read Infinite Jest, a 1,079 page book, in a month?)
Anyway, because we were both fairly well-versed in the book, we began to discuss it and the huge issue of sexual assault. Toward the end of the conversation, we'd circled around to my date with Sampson and how, despite my very vocal efforts to resist his advances, he wouldn't accept my refusals.
Then, my friend said something that stuck with me, long after he'd left and gone back to Brooklyn.
"You know," he told me, "It's a good thing you stuck to your advances -- maybe a lot of people wouldn't have. Maybe that guy has done that to other girls and, instead of leaving him, he wore them down enough to get them home." Then, he used a lot of terrible adjectives to describe the type of human Sampson is and walked down my stairs, taking my phone charger that, for some reason, has a photo of my mother attached to it, but forgetting his belt.
In all honesty, the sentence he said right before he left is the reason I wrote this post -- everyone should know it's okay to say no and everyone should know that a refusal is not an open invitation to keep trying. It's bizarre to me that some people don't understand that concept, but I hope this story, my story, peppered between anecdotes of car candles and Goldfish, helps.
Because no means no means no… and everyone deserves that respect and knowledge.