The World's Foremost Expert, or My Worst Date Ever

Laugh, squirm, and shriek with me over this story of an epically bad date!

Picture it: Muncie, Indiana, a Midwestern college town. 2011! Spring! A small sports bar-cum-gastropub at the edge of campus. This, friends, was the setting for one of the absolute worst dates of my life.

As awful as it was, I knew even at the time that the hilariousness of this exquisitely terrible meeting would one day make excellent fodder for a written compendium of misadventures in dating. Well, it seems the time is upon us. Sadly, this is all terribly true:

In late spring of 2011, I was 26, and I found myself at a crossroads in life. My father had just passed away. I had just gotten sober. And my boyfriend had just dumped me. Instead of taking some time to, oh, I don't know, process any of these major life changes, or to work on myself even just generally, I chose instead to cannonball back into the dating pool. I figured that all I needed to get rid of this persistent unmoored feeling - this strange, isolated floating sensation - was a new boyfriend.

This wasn't a particularly admirable impulse, but as I look back, maybe it was understandable. I had recently lost several of the stabilizing tethers of my life, even if they weren't all healthy: I didn't have alcohol to rely on anymore. My father had died. And my boyfriend had gone back to his ex-wife. It felt like too much change, and I just wanted to put some new tethers in place, to replace the lost ones. I wasn't going to start abusing a new substance, and I couldn't just run out to Fathers R Us and pick up a replacement model. So dating seemed to be the place to start.

This time I'd be ruthless, I promised myself. No more waiting around for tall, skinny, brown-hair-and-glasses intellectual types. (Yes, I'd already met

David Swindle

at that time, and though he wasn't available then, he made quite an impression.) This go-round, I decided, I'd try different kinds of folks. I'd try a math guy - weird! I'd try a blond guy - unthinkable! I'd even try - gasp - someone who enjoyed video games! After all, I kept hearing that opposites attract.

At this time, there were no dating apps, and I don't think swiping right was a thing yet. There were, however, many dating sites - think Match.com or eHarmony - as well as all kinds of smaller sites for more niche interests and lifestyles. Great! I thought. I took a bunch of really nice selfies, wrote some zippy, snappy copy about myself and my interests, and wallpapered the Internet with my profile.

Then I fashioned myself a dating uniform, making sure I'd look equally nice each time. I bought several variations of cute silk camisoles and fitted miniature blazers (I beg you, remember, it was 2011). Then I got cushioned insoles for my trusty, go-to “confidence boots” - a pair of spiky, pointed-toe black-patent ankle boots that magically turned me into the most elegant and sophisticated woman in the world (again, it was 2011). I expected to be wearing those suckers twice each weekend and ideally a few evenings each week. Then I kicked them up and waited for the messages to roll in.

Soon, a cute-ish, science-y PhD candidate messaged me, newly arrived from the inscrutable, frozen northland of Minnesota. Talk of science typically made my eyes glaze over, and I knew not a single thing about Minnesota, so naturally, I chose to find all this fascinating.

The guy wasn't overly talkative, and he wasn't the most handsome guy I'd ever seen. But his eagerness to meet up sooner rather than later more than made up for it. Perfect: “Todd” and I quickly made arrangements to meet for lunch at a restaurant within walking distance of my home.

I let my best friend know about my plans. Long married, she was a bit bewildered, given that Todd and I didn't have much in common, but was still supportive, especially when I reminded her that one has to keep one's dating muscles toned. She agreed that a lunchtime date seemed safe, but she did convince me to drive to the restaurant, rather than walk, just in case I needed to leave unexpectedly.

How very glad I would be that I had brought my car!

On the appointed day, I dressed in my darkest wash bootcut jeans, a purple raw silk camisole, a black brocade blazer, and, of course, the boots. Carefully I hung little amethysts from my earlobes and perfectly flicked the wings of my eyeliner. I looked about as good as could be hoped for, given what I was working with. Satisfied, though a bit nervous, I set out in my cobalt-blue Dodge Avenger for the half-mile drive to the restaurant.

In the parking lot, I noticed it was still about 15 minutes early. Genuinely antsy now, I sucked down a Marlboro Light and then made my way inside, where I stood awkwardly near the hostess stand, looking for someone who looked like Todd. There were two tables of girls, one table of a father and son, another table seating several professors, and one schlubby guy in the corner - I must have arrived first, I thought.

I stood there waiting, fiddling with my phone, when suddenly I heard a loud, impatient voice resound across the dining room: “Sally? Sally! Over here!”

It was the schlubby guy.

And I don’t mean that in a body-shaming way. It was true that Todd was not exactly thin, but neither was I; no matter. As I made my way awkwardly through the dining room, I saw that Todd was arrayed in what were presumably his finest ratty jeans and ancient band t-shirt. It was a band t-shirt so old, in fact, that I couldn't even read the screen printing anymore. As he raised his arm in greeting - no, he didn't stand up - I saw that the armpit was ripped out of the t-shirt. It was entirely absent.

And this absence of fabric at his underarm allowed a certain scent - an odor, really - to come through. And to slap me in the face.

I was taken aback. I had coordinated a special outfit and makeup for this date, and he had turned up looking like an especially unfortunate hobo - smelling like one, too, not to put too fine a point on it. Still, what was there to do but to smile graciously and sit down? Awkwardly, I hoisted myself up onto the tall, backed bar stool.

Here I noticed that his napkin was flung over his shoulder. Like a spit rag for a baby being burped. And, like a spit rag, it was visibly moist in spots.

“It's good to meet you,” I said, with the warmest smile I could muster.

Todd reached for his glass of soda and took a long drink, grunting in response.

“You having a good day?” I asked, pointedly arranging my napkin on my lap.

“'S aright,” he mumbled, then belched loudly as he set his glass down.

In the minute that had elapsed since Todd had called my name, I had gone from feeling total neutrality to feeling something very much like revulsion. Still, I couldn't help but think that the ruder behavior would be mine if I stood back up right now and said, “I’m sorry, I don't think this is going to work,” or, “I just remembered that I have to go alphabetize my lip glosses by brand. Uhh, it's an emergency - sorry!”

As the scent of Todd's belch wafted over me, I resolved to make it through. Obviously I would never contact him again. But I could last through one lunch.

But where was our server? As we waited, I served Todd several polite questions, all of which he answered in phrases of three words or fewer. Becoming desperate, I finally said, “So tell me about your degree program.”

At that prompt, he came alive. As I sat there, wishing desperately that I hadn't recently quit drinking, he told me in excruciating detail about his studies isolating … well, some mineral, out in some dirt somewhere. I'm sorry. I really tried to follow it.

I grew alarmed as Todd gesticulated wildly, his voice arching and booming with animation. In my peripheral vision, a waiter lurked for a good 30 seconds before asking, “May I please interrupt? Would you guys like to order?”

As he slunk away, I caught his eye and mouthed, “Thank you!” The waiter smiled and raised his eyebrows. I made a note to leave this guy an extra tip, even if Todd somehow picked up the check.

Oddly, the interruption of having to order seemed to put a stop to the performance. Todd sat there, sullen, staring into space, utterly silent. But now the silence was deafening. And awkward. What else could I do? As I heard the words, “So, you were saying?” come out of my mouth, my brain screamed, “Shut up Sally!”

It was as if I had hit “play.” Todd was immediately once again very animated. Emphasizing a point now lost to time, he deployed a powerful backhand that batted his full glass of Pepsi into the middle of the dining room, where it clattered spectacularly. Ice spread ten feet in each direction on the hardwood floor. The slice of lemon lay there, forlorn, as I gawked.

Heads from every table swiveled. I heard a couple of snickers and one “Oh, my God.”

Belatedly, Todd glanced down, noticing the mess. He wrinkled his nose. “They should get somebody to clean that up.”

Oh, now - this was too much, surely. “I … have to use the restroom real quick,” I said, sliding down inelegantly from the bar stool. “I'll be right back.” He didn't respond.

I walked away, rolling my eyes.

In the ladies' room, I sat down on a bench and whipped out my phone, texting my best friend a recap. “What do I do? This is mortifying!”

“You have your car! You could just leave,” she reminded me.

“That seems so shitty!” I was notoriously non-confrontational.

“Well, then just eat your lunch and get out of there.”

Yes, I decided - that's what I'd do. I washed my hands and came back out, hoisting myself up onto the uncomfortable chair once again. At the table, Todd had a new Pepsi, and there was no trace of the empty glass, the ice, or the lemon that had been all over the floor. Still, I felt eyes on me, including those of the waiter, as I joined Todd again.

Todd acknowledged my return by saying earnestly, “So I'm pretty much the world's foremost expert in that couple of acres there. Nobody knows more about that mineral profile than I do.”

I blinked. This sounded like the middle of a conversation. Had I had a small stroke?

“Uhh. Wow,” I said blankly.

“Most people aren't very likely to meet the world's foremost expert in anything,” he laughed. “But now you've met me!”

I felt myself flush and my eyebrows disappear up into my hairline as I responded, as evenly as I could, “Actually, I grew up with a father who was certainly one of the world's foremost experts in firearms. He just passed away, actually.”

Todd snorted. “Guns! Guns are stupid. Minerals, though! Minerals are the thing.” He took a big swig of Pepsi and banged the glass back down, as if it were a tankard of ale on the banquet table of Henry VIII.

I was gaping at him, trying to come up with a response, when he glanced back at me. “Why, what did you major in that's so great?”

What? “I majored in German and Spanish,” I said. “But -”

“Aha! And what's so great about that?” he asked. “Are you the world's foremost expert in German and Spanish?”

“No! I didn't say they were so great! It's just what interested me. And I don't want to be the world's foremost expert! I just -”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I - I guess I - I want to be a writer, okay?” Who was this smelly, insufferable boob to rag on me about my life choices?

Then again, I realized abruptly, I was the one voluntarily spending time with such a jerk: maybe my life choices did deserve to be called into question.

“Ohhh, a writer. That's very special. Are you going to be the world's foremost expert on writing?” Across the restaurant, heads began to swivel in our direction again.

My face was very hot. “That is a false equivalency, Doctor. Being the world's foremost expert on all of writing, like, the entire worldwide discipline, in every language, in every form, for every purpose, is much different than being the guy who's run the most soil samples on a two-acre plot of land!” Out the corner of my eye, I saw the waiter snort and cover his mouth.

I flopped against the ladder back of my chair, exasperated. “Why did you even want to meet me if all you're going to do is harass me?” I asked. “Did you even want to come on this date?!”

Todd shrugged. “Sure I did. I mean, you're hot.”

In total disbelief, I floated in and out of spacetime trying to formulate a response. I wanted to tell him it was pretty rich to feel entitled to the time of someone you're attracted to, only to use that time to belittle them.

I wanted to ask him what he thought his own redeeming characteristics were, sitting here, behaving like an absolute asshole, while dressed in a t-shirt with the whole, entire armpit ripped out, belching his nasty breath across the table at me.

I wanted to ask him what kind of self-important butt doesn't even say, “I'm sorry,” when his lunch companion tells him that her father has just died. I wanted to remind him that it's polite to ask even one question about the other person: he hadn't even asked me how I was.

But I didn't get to.

In the two or three seconds that all of these separate thoughts crowded each other in my mind, a song came on the restaurant's sound system. I don't know what song it was; I hadn't heard it before.

Todd had.

He exploded into a shower of enthusiasm. “Hey! Awesome! I love this song! This is great!” He looked at me. “Great song, right?”

“I don't actually know -”

“Oh, it's great. 'Da dum da doo, doo dat duh do do do' … Hey, watch this!” As the chorus swelled, Todd somehow clambered up on his barstool chair until he was standing on its seat. He bent down and grabbed a ketchup bottle from the table, then stood back up to lip-sync along to the song, singing into it like a microphone.

Everything stopped.

I could only watch in horror as his ungainly frame swayed above me. My brain skipped right over “I can't believe this" and went straight to “He's going to fall. He's going to fall and land on me and … and he'll kill me, won't he? Yes. He will kill me. This is how I will die.” Yet I was frozen, for once, to my own chair. I'm sure everyone was staring. I couldn't move.

Behind me, I heard the waiter's merry sing-song as he approached, calling, “All right, guys, I've got your - oh, my God.” He looked up. He looked at me. He looked up again.

“I - I've got your lunch,” he finished in a horrified whisper.

This startled Todd, who - of course - hadn't been thinking of anyone else around at all. In surprise, he squeezed the ketchup bottle he'd been using as a microphone. “Ack!” he exclaimed, wobbling dangerously.

I still couldn't move, except to brace myself. I expected to be hit with a 220-lb man, someone who would fall hard, knock me off my own elevated chair, and flatten the life out of me - or asphyxiate me with his armpit - there on the hardwood floor. Possibly I would just break a few bones; most likely, I would pass away. Goodbye, cruel world, I thought, still rooted in place, unable to get out of the way, as he teetered precipitously. Dad, I'm coming!

What came raining down instead took me several moments to identify. I expected a warm, hard, full-body impact. I expected a blackout. Instead, there was a strange wetness - on my glasses, and then on my chest; my cleavage. I blinked: it was red. Blood? Was I bleeding?

Not blood. Ketchup.

This absolute goon had accidentally squeezed the bottle he was lip-syncing into, and from his position six feet above me, had sent a spurt of ketchup upward at first, then down. Down and down, until it splattered first across the lenses of my glasses, and then over my chest; inside my bra.

The restaurant was utterly silent for the two seconds it took Todd to realize what had happened. “Whoa, dude!” he exclaimed, climbing down. “Bank shot! Two points!”

After that, my memory cuts to sitting in my car, driving home.

Did I pretend to need the bathroom again and sneak out? Did I simply announce that I'd finally had enough? I have no idea. Did I leave a tip for that poor waiter? I sure hope so, but I cannot say; I seem to have blocked the rest of that sorry “date” from my memory.

I do recall not going into the office that night, opting instead to lie there on my bed, shivering and trying to convince myself that just one more bottle of wine would be okay, that I could quit drinking again after I finished it. I'm proud to say I did not give in to that rationalization, although, looking back, there was certainly a case to be made for it.

I also did not go on to become the world's foremost expert in either German, Spanish, or writing in general. Sorry, Todd! I guess he called it right - I just don't have that high level of achievement in me. At least I had him, and this memory, to instruct me on the meaning of true excellence.*

*🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄