Sometimes one date is all you need. Sometimes one date is one too many. Blogger and columnist Rebecca McGuire writes:
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“Dear First Date Disaster,
You were my first real date after a pretty traumatic breakup last year. I was excited – I was back in the ‘dating game’. I went into our date hoping that it would either go super well (hello potential husband!), or super badly (hello MamaMia blog content). So. Here we are…
Now, before I begin, I just want to say that I take full ownership for what ensued. I found you at the worst (irrefutable fact) nightclub in Brisbane. (Note to self Rebecca: It is true, nightclub pickups are always bad. Don’t try it again.) I was at worst-nightclub for a bit of a giggle at the lame music; you were there for your night out. That should have sounded alarm bells for me. But it didn’t. After all, you were/are pretty hot. Silly, shallow me.
Anyways, so, our date. You turned up to our medium-to-high-end restaurant date in thongs, which I originally thought – okay, cool he’s from the coast; he’s a chilled out kind of guy, I need that, I’m highly strung. No no. Wrong. Turns out, you’re not chilled; you’re actually a bit of a bogan.
I came to the ‘bogan conclusion’ pretty much straight away. And, whilst I can be a bit judgey (a very ugly side to me, I admit), your response to my “Why did you move from country NSW to the coast?” which involved you telling me that you threw a sausage roll (yes, seriously, you said that) at your ex-girlfriend’s face in one of the country pubs down there, and therefore you needed to get away from that experience, confirmed your bogan status.
I have to be honest. I am still wondering – what part of that story was I supposed to find endearing? I know people often misstep/misspeak out of first date nerves, but really? Could you not have just said “It was time for a change” or“I wanted to experience coastal life”?I continued to nod along, smiling, appearing unfazed. Meanwhile, I was vomiting in my head.
I however must again take responsibility here for making the assumption (and I even know that ‘assume makes an ass out of u and me’!) that given you’re a country boy, you would be mature, or at least have a few years on your city counterparts. Never again will I get my facts from Farmer Wants A Wife. (PS. Natalie Gruzlewski – you have betrayed me and the sisterhood.)
Our date then decayed further in to you telling me what your football mates get up to on the weekends. I was taught what ‘shelving pingers’ means. Thanks for that. And for the imagery. So appropriate whilst I ate my lunch.
You then confirmed your bogan type (cashed up bogan) by telling me the cost of a suit you “messed up, whilst breaking up a fight and then getting into it.” You used the term ‘king-hit’. Again, not really endearing.
To try and move on from this, I asked if you had done some traveling. “No, none,” you replied, and the reason? Because you spend all of your money on your mates. Now, had I not seen your thongs; heard the ex-girlfriend-sausage-roll story; been taught about ‘shelving pingers’; been told the cost of your suit, and been exposed to the words ‘king hit’, I might have assumed that your money went to your mates because you are a generous fellow – because you like to help your friends out when they’re in a bind. No, no. I think it’s safe to assume it gets spent on rumbos every week at your local.
So, all of this, and to think that I white-lied and told you that I walked to the restaurant because I didn’t want you to see my nearby parked dirty car, and make a bad first impression. (My Nanna has always said “Becky, no man will ever marry you if they see the inside of your car.”)
From the girl who will always admire/perve on you from a distance only, alas,
Rebecca (no-second-date-required-thank-you) x”
Aside from world peace, she hopes for a world where strangers say “good morning” to each other, and that sneezes are always followed by “bless you”. Rebecca aspires to be the next Ita Buttrose, but with brown hair.
