A Night to (Almost) Remember [Diary of the Undateable]

‚ By 

I went on a bad date, y’all. A bad, bad date with a bad, bad man. I reactivated that good ‘ol online dating profile that’s brought me so much luck in the past. You see, I’ve always been the kind of person who has to learn things the hard way. I’m the kid who always hears, “I told you so.” So instead of burying my head in the books for finals, I opened up my MacBook in hopes of finding a distraction.

It turns out he found me. A cutie named Tonio sent me a message and truthfully, I was extremely flattered! He had everything on his profile spelled correctly, graduated from college and was legally employed. These days, you really can’t go wrong with that. After a weekend of the typical tennis match convo, he offered up his number. I texted him a day later. The conversation flowed naturally as I learned more about him – for the first time in a long time, I was the girl grinning at her phone! Every morning for about a week, he’d send me a “good morning” text. “He’s thinking about me,” I thought with glee.

My photo should probably be the feature image for stupidwomenwhowillbelieveanythingconvenient.org.

Later that week after an hour-long Skype conversation, Tonio asked me out for about the third time. He wanted to see me the day we began talking, but I wanted to wait a few days. In retrospect, that should’ve been my first red flag.

So of course, I consulted with my council of homegirls. “If he’s really crazy, it’s better to find out now!” one friend advised. “If you keep on turning him down, he definitely won’t ask you out again,” another told me.

Fast forward to Friday afternoon – 4/20. In a cloudy haze of campus reefer smoke and ambition, I decided to accept his date offer. I didn’t mind that he set up our plans without consulting me. I didn’t mind that he wanted to meet me really late – 11 p.m. I didn’t mind that he wasn’t too concerned about me missing out on reading hours for finals, either. I’m young, he’s cute, and I never get to do this. YOLO.

We decided to meet down the street from my house. He insisted on picking me up, but I wasn’t cool with him knowing where I lived. I waited for him for half an hour, worried that he saw what I looked like and ran for the hills. But it was just traffic, I guess. He showed up looking better than his pictures in a crisp button down and jeans. I was happy about that! I was actually happy for most of the date, even when he decided to take me to a loud, ratchet bar with a raucous, un-romantic crowd and watered down drinks. We chatted for about half an hour before weaving our way to the bar exit.

It was time for me to head back, but my friend who I was staying with was nowhere to be found. “Let’s keep the party going!” he suggested. “We can go into the city and hit up happy hour.”

I let his nice smile and my vodka and cranberry buzz clout my judgment as I stepped into his car. I didn’t even take a picture of his license plate like I was supposed to! We cracked jokes and listened to music, and everything was going swimmingly. Until he started driving way past D.C. and towards his house, miles and miles away. Umm, what?

Stay tuned for part two next week!

When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea moonlights as a print journalism major at the REAL HU, Howard University. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you.

[lead image via NakedWithSocksOn]
Comments