After Cody and Cade, I go on a lot of first dates that never turn into second dates. I go out with a guy named Trevor who shows up wearing jeans, a fresh white tee, and an undeniable rage seething just barely below the surface. He’s fresh out of the military and never makes eye contact. We sit far apart on an outdoor sectional at what used to be my favorite Starbucks but is now the Starbucks where I met Trevor. We never discuss his rage per se but the whole date is tainted by a feeling of aggression and dissatisfaction. His ex-girlfriend was crazy (sir, be serious, you’re talking about her to me on a first date, she is not the crazy one). The military is a scam (and I mean, hard agree, but also way too intense for a first date, not to mention he never once asked what I did for work). People here suck (alright sir, maybe tone it down a little or add some specifics because I am, in fact, here right now).
At one point, because I’m a fat woman who lives in a world that hates fat women, I wonder if he’s disappointed and angry because I’m fat. I wonder if he had romanticized me in his mind before the date as someone smaller, more fragile. But as I stand up after this horrible date where he asks me no questions and offers me no interest, I choose to believe the better alternative. Trevor would’ve shown up this angry to a date with any woman.
I tell him it’s getting late, which it most certainly is not. I think we hug goodbye—probably the first kind touch he’s had in a while. Trevor is not my burden to carry nor my blame to absorb. Angry men are not angry because of me. It is not my job to save them. It is not my job to tolerate them. Sitting in my car, with the air conditioning cranked, I keep the windows closed. I have this sneaking feeling that Trevor is going to knock on my window and ask for a second date. Even though the date was stressful and uncomfortable for me, I just have this sinking feeling that Trevor wouldn’t view it the same way. While his animosity for life was jarring to me, I can’t help but assume it’s his natural state. I peel out of the parking lot quickly and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s such a shame, I think, aside from the anger and total lack of personality and social skills, dude was a real hottie. But that’s the problem (or the blessing?) with dating in your thirties or any age at which you’ve done enough dating and fucking that a man being hot no longer cancels out anything. Trevor texted later that night to ask me out again.
I don’t think we’re a good match, I wrote.
He responded with some saving-face-type-nonsense about how he completely agreed. It was bullshit but that was fine with me. I could let an angry man save face.
After Trevor, I go out with Brandon whose name I’ve made up because ‘angry coffee from Kamloops’ is a mouthful and he just seemed like a Brandon (sorry Brandons). The night of our date, after I’d spent two hours doing my hair and makeup, Brandon messages to ask if I’ll pick him up on the way to our date.
I cancel immediately.
Why? He texts.
Because I don’t want to date a man who asks for a ride on the first date. Because I don’t want to pick him up. Because I don’t want a stranger in my car.
He pleads. He begs. He gaslights.
I really want to meet you, I promise you won’t regret it, please it’s not a big deal.
I cannot tell you how many bad decisions I’ve made in my life because I didn’t want to waste my hair and makeup. The moment I see Brandon, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Men should read books about women. Men should read books about fat women. And, of course, men should read this book. But if nothing else, men should read this next paragraph and really absorb what I’m saying.
It is a huge generalization to say that men lie about their height, but as any woman on a dating app can tell you (or any person who’s ever asked a man how tall he is and then measured him), a huge number of men do lie about their height. Any man who does this, when called out for it, will usually begin a diatribe about how women don’t like short men or how women show up fatter than they thought they would or whatever missing-the-point-misogyny is fresh on their mind at the moment but here’s the truth—women hate liars. First, it’s bonkers to lie about your height (or misrepresent yourself in any way—don’t think I’m here to defend anyone who posts inaccurate pictures on a dating profile). When you meet the other person, they’re going to notice. When you said you were 5’10 and you show up eye to eye with me, I’m going to fucking notice. It might seem like I’m exaggerating, but I find it absolutely insane to do this and think the other person won’t notice. Second, doing this tells the other person immediately that you’re insecure about [insert thing you hid in your photos]. And let me tell you, I will date a short guy. I will fuck a short guy. He still has to be awesome and everything, but height has never actually stopped me from dating anyone. Insecurity though? *barf sounds* Is there anything less attractive? I am not your therapist and I’m not your friend. I’m a first date and just like the anger of men, I am unwilling to carry the burden of their insecurities, now and forever. Fix your shit before the meet up time babe. Or at least understand that it’s the deception and the insecurity and the lack of self-acceptance that women are really taking issue with when you show up four inches shorter than you claimed to be on our first date. Or, as in the case of Brandon, the sparsest combover I’ve ever seen after only posting pictures of you in hats.
Perhaps ironically, Brandon had not lied about his height and when he climbed into the front seat of my car, his 6’7 frame barely fit, his knees pressing against the dashboard. Pissed about having to pick him up for our first date, and pissed about his deceptive pictures, I did what any reasonable person would do and drove us to the coffee shop for our date. Brandon, of course, did what any insane person would do and didn’t order a drink. We sat in the coffeeshop as I sipped my coffee and he sipped on every last inch of tolerance I had. Brandon was as angry and aggressive as Trevor, mimicking him by talking only about himself the whole time. I counted down the seconds till it felt like a reasonable time to end the date. Brandon told a vacation story about swimming with sharks and every anecdote was about how important money and material things were to him. He was a salesman at heart (my least favorite profession) with the exception being that he seemed to have no ability to read his audience. It was like being on a date with Al Pacino’s character in Devil’s Advocate and I just kept waiting for his greasy combover to melt down his face to reveal the fiery figure underneath. No respite ever came and after about an hour I suggested we leave.
Any decent person would say goodbye at the coffeeshop and walk to the bus stop or call himself a taxi, instead Brandon followed me to my car suggesting we go back to his place to watch a movie.
“Oh, sorry I can’t,” I said lying through my gritted teeth. I think I even faked a yawn and stretch, “I’m really tired.”
“Didn’t you just have coffee?”
Well, he had me there. I didn’t really care if he could see straight through my rouse though, there was no-fucking-way I was going home with this animal—I’d rather swim with sharks.
“Yeah, I don’t know why I’m so tired,” I said (it was probably your terrible company and fucked up values), “just a long day, I guess.”
He asked again when we arrived at my car and instead of saying goodbye he got in. He asked again when I pulled up to his place.
“You’re not that tired,” he pleaded.
“I am,” I said, further judging him now for trying to convince me to do something I didn’t want to do. I’d spent so much of my life being convinced by men to take things further and though I’m sure I hadn’t perfected the art of saying no just yet, I was getting a hell of a lot better, and I wasn’t about to cave for this dipshit.
Brandon remained sitting in my car staring at me so intensely I could hear it when he blinked.
“Okay, well, I have to go now so,” and I gestured at the door. He finally got the picture and opened the door. I’m not even sure he’d closed it behind him before I was speeding away.
I would’ve thought that was the last time I ever heard from Brandon but shortly after arriving home he began frantically texting. He wanted to know what had gone wrong or what I didn’t like about him. I lied and said it was nothing particular, just that we weren’t a good match. I didn’t know how to say any of the real reason with kindness (mostly because I felt no kindness in my heart for him). If he’d asked me months down the road, I probably could’ve found a way to deliver the bomb softly but having only just escaped it all, I was hardly in a place to be delicate. He pushed and pushed and pushed until I finally thought fuck it, I’m going to tell this guy the truth about himself, and I fucking did. I told Brandon every misstep he’d made (asking for a ride, making me drink coffee alone, talking only about himself, having terrible values, being unable to read the room, requiring a ride home, harassing me until I gave him a critique), I pointed out every deception he’d offered (mainly the baldness and only having posted photos of himself in hats), and just overall let him have it. As you would expect, he acted like a grownup, took the criticism, and thanked me for taking the time to give him feedback. Just kidding, he called me a stuck-up bitch and some other nasty stuff I couldn’t care less about and I stopped responding till he disappeared. Men be menning, amirite.
You telling him about himself gives me a life. Also, I know it’s not the point but I’m just curious how tall you are?