First dates can be
a number of things. They can turn out to be fun, boring, or most often, awkward. What first dates should not be are those set up over a chat message on
MySpace at 13. Just because you both use the term “LOL” and “OMG” does not make
it grounds for you to waste time and effort with each other. Further more, if
he uses “LOL” or “OMG”, which is a warning sign in itself, do not go on that
date. Note taken.
Mikey was 14,
skateboarded, and lived in the same small town I did growing up. In fact,
according to MySpace, he lived just about 3 blocks from the local movie
theatre. Coincidence? I thought not. Naturally, our first meet up would be to
enjoy the opening night of “How To
Lose A Guy in Ten Days”. Little did I know this movie was going to be actually
helpful in the next coming years.
He was tall, had
beautiful blue eyes, long dark hair, and wore his pants tighter than David
Bowie. At least that’s what his profile picture depicted. I thought I won the
pre-teen lottery with this one. Obviously my mother wouldn’t understand the
need to date at 13, so I had to lie. This was also a handy talent I would
utilize in the coming years.
Asking to be
dropped off anywhere at 13 was a huge deal with my mother. Every time I asked
her, it was as if I was asking to be dropped off at a Malaysian sweatshop or a
crack house. She wanted to know where, when, why, who was going to be there,
and how many Pepsi’s was I planning on consuming.
So when it came
time to arrange my date with Mikey, I simply said, “Mom, Chelsea and I want to
go see a new Disney movie tonight, can you drop me off at the theatre at 6?”
And then began the
questioning. “Why can’t Chels pick you up? Maybe I can call her dad and see if
it’s not too much to ask? Also, how long is the movie? Who else is going?”
And then, like a dream come true, a
blessing from the heavens if you will, my father walked in. Normally, this
would not excite me, but on this particular day he happened to have had a
horrible day at work. He came in complaining about something, and as quick as
you could say, “two tickets please”, they were in a full-blown fight.
Now I know you’re
thinking, what child could be excited about parents screaming at each other and
adding stress to the family environment? This one. I knew what was coming next. My mother needed a break, and
like clockwork the next words I heard being yelled down the stairs were
“Lauren, get your ass in the car, I’m taking you to the theatre.”
There I was,
sitting in the lobby of the theatre, palms sweaty, staring down at my ripped up
Chuck Taylor’s and wondering why I didn’t opt for a more chic pair of flats.
These are the moments you can’t get back. I would look up periodically to see
if the mystical man that I thought would be my future husband would be showing
up anytime soon. I started to panic. Could I actually be getting stood up? Did
I really just agree to spend my Friday night alone watching Kate Hudson and
Matthew McConaughey make out for 2 hours?
All of a sudden a
young, small boy walked up to me and proceeded to give me a hug, which
basically turned out to be around my waist. I stepped back and looked at the
man/guy/boy/child before me. He slightly resembled the professional skater on
MySpace, but definitely more of a miniature Elijah Wood circa Frodo times
rather than hot Hollywood babe. What on earth have I done? He couldn’t be a day
over 11. I even distinctly remember taking note of his high voice and wondering
if he would grow up to sing in a Broadway musical of some sort. I really felt
that musical theatre could be his calling, but aside from all the career path
knowledge I possessed at 13, it was all for nothing. I had officially begun my
dating career with an undiscovered, hobbit sized, child star.
Now this is where
I would like to address Tom from MySpace. Tom, whether you are in jail,
ordering bottle service with hookers in Vegas, or feeding your grandmothers
cat, I sincerely would like to take a moment to tell you how you fucked up my
first date. If it weren’t for your lackadaisical approach on the issue of the
“MySpace Angle” in profile pictures and the accuracy of the height and weight
descriptions, I would not be in this predicament. Also, don’t give me that shit
about “creative freedom” or whatever. You sir, have enabled many people’s wild
imagination to run free, mine included. Maybe next time you want to build a
mega social network, you will incorporate facial/body scans. This seems totally
feasible and a lifesaver for those of us who like to give strangers the benefit
of the doubt. What could’ve been a Bradley Cooper to some may have in fact
turned out to be a Marilyn Manson. You can see my concern.
After Mikey asked
me if I wanted to share a white cherry Icee, I knew this was going downhill.
What was even worse was the look of excitement on his face. He was literally
thrilled to be on this date. I mean honestly, what 11-year-old boy wouldn’t be
excited to be on a date with an older woman? As we found our seats at the very
top of the theatre, he whispered something I will never forget. In the way I
imagine Hugh Hefner saying this to his 20- something year old lady friends, he
slowly whispered, “I’m glad you decided to be my girlfriend.”
There it was.
Panic began to set in. How do I get out of this situation? This was like
babysitting without a payment, and nobody in his or her right mind would do
that. Girlfriend? Is he crazy? This had to come to an end. Right as I was about
to get up to excuse myself for a much-needed pep talk in the bathroom, he
reached over and awkwardly grabbed my hand.
Great.
Now when a guy
holds your hand, there are two ways to do so: equally interlaced fingers, or
the mitten fit. In any other circumstance I would prefer the equally interlaced
hand holding option. Mitten fit is ok too, but only if you want to send a
message to the other party stating, “You been placed in the friend zone. Thanks
for dinner, but don’t waste your money on me again.” Anyway, he had grabbed my
hand, and while I fought for the mitten grip, he mysteriously pulled off a half
interlaced, half mitten grip. It was awful. Instead of every other finger
hugging it was more like, his finger, my two fingers, then his three fingers;
all jammed together in confusion.
So there I was,
holding hands with a hobbit, sharing a quickly melting cherry Icee, and
watching Kate Hudson being seduced by a real man. Yes, I may sound like a rude
bitch, but in reality if I was a bitch, I would’ve walked away upon the awkward
hug in the lobby. Aside from feeling like I should be on To Catch A Predator, I
felt bad. Although this kid conned me into thinking I was going to go on the
best first date ever, I still felt wrong about leaving him there alone with his
melting Icee, pants as tight as a tourniquet, and crushed ego. As I sat and endured the movie, I began
to think about his age. He did say he was 14. Maybe he was! Maybe he had some
sort of sickness or disease that made him appear younger, and here I was,
rudely pegging him as a weird horny 11 year old.
The guilt began to wash over me, and the
curiosity was killing me. I leaned over and whispered, “Hey I know this may
seem weird, and I don’t mean to insult you, but are you really 14?”
Silence.
I blew it. I knew
it. This kid probably had some disease and now I was officially the 13-year-old
mega bitch of the universe.
Trying to recover
I nervously said, “I’m sorry, that was rude. You definitely look 14, just was
curious, I mean, your hair is awesome and stuff.”
Your hair is
awesome and stuff? What on earth was I trying to say? He looked incredibly
embarrassed and I immediately vowed to sit there and shut up the rest of the
date.
It was then the
hobbit decided to speak, and when he did, it wasn’t pretty.
Clear as day, he then said, “Well,
I will eventually be 14.”
Eventually?
I continued to ask
him as to when exactly that would be.
He proceeded to
say he had turned 12 a couple of months ago, but to be rest assured because
apparently he was more mature than his 15-year-old brother. There it was. I was
on a date with a 12-year-old con artist. I began to wonder how his mother even
let him go to the movies alone, considering the various hoops I had to jump
through to get there. He probably had told his mother he was meeting a friend
and his babysitter to see a movie, in that case, I may have had a chance to get
paid from this shit storm situation.
After deliberating
the worth of $7.00 an hour, It was then that I excused myself to the ladies
room, walked out of the theatre, and took the Foothill Transit to Starbucks.
There has never been a more appropriate time for a Carmel Frappuccino in a
young girls life. As I sipped away the only dignity I had left, I didn’t feel
bad for leaving him one bit. I’m sure he is out there somewhere today,
suffering from abandonment issues that may or may not have stemmed from that
first tryst with an older woman. What else was I to do? In fact, I almost feel
like I helped him. I taught him a lesson. And in doing so, I believe I also
taught myself some valuable lessons:
Boys will always lie in some form
or another.
Frappuccinos should only be
consumed in moments of severe stress.
And Tom from MySpace can kiss my
ass.
