I was sweating through every nice item of clothing I owned. The more and more I tried on a new shirt, the more and more I hated life.
If you’ve ever been on a date, you know how difficult it is to pick out an outfit. Though I had been on dates before, this one was special. Who’s the lucky person, you ask? It was someone who turned out to be a real douchebag–and that’s okay because this person gave me a really fun story to write.
His name was Mark (not really but go with it). Mark asked me out on a date, and it was going to be the first time I’d be publicly seen with another guy on a date, so I already had the nervous ass crack sweat and felt like I was going to shit a brick.
Mark and I met up at a pretty fancy restaurant that had words like “steak” and “salmon” which was a definite one-up from my usual menu reading from inside my car at Taco Bell. He was tall, handsome, smiled a ton, and I liked his style. I was already picking out our wedding colors and searching for furniture on Craigslist.
Looks can be deceiving.
We talked a little bit here and there while our waitress smiled at us, probably deciding if we were on a date or whether we were just friends getting dinner.
And then something happened.
As much as I’m sure you’re anticipating him getting up and throwing his drink in my face and busting his shirt open like the Hulk, he quietly grabbed his phone from his pocket and laid it next to his plate, clicking the lock screen once.
Here’s the thing: I don’t mind if you check your phone 2-3 times during a meal if it’s buzzing constantly, but when you are on a date, you are present, which this fucker was everything but.
I could tell ten minutes in that it was going to be a hot mess, so I decided to have some fun with the situation anyway. Instead of pardoning myself from dinner due to a deathly illness or a family member in an accident (that one is a crowd favorite amirite?), I simply looked for the most expensive item on the menu. So yes, you bet your sweet ass I ordered that ribeye steak and a loaded baked potato with a side salad, as he continued to look at his phone every 3 seconds.
The conversation was pretty bland, presumably because Dick, excuse me, Mark, was constantly on his phone. I decided to kick it up a notch and make the conversation real interesting, at least for me.
We were nearing the end of our meal when he asked something about California beaches. I took this and ran—no—sprinted, because I saw him about to pick up his phone for 666th time (Yes, I’m making a subtle hint that Mark is the Devil). After all, it was perfect timing. I finished my steak with nothing but a piece of fat hanging on the side of the plate. I made it through dinner with this prick, so I deserved to have some fun.
And it basically went like this:
“So, Garrett, did you go to the beach a lot in California?”
“Well, Mark, thanks for asking that amazing question that had nothing to do with our existing conversation about music.”
I didn’t really say that, but my tone was revealing of my attitude towards him.
“Yeah, I went to the beach a good bit. (MARK PICKS UP PHONE) I actually had some crazy experiences there. One time, I think I was 11 or 12, I went surfing and I was actually attacked by a shark. I was in the hospital for a few months, but I left with just some scars and bruises on my abdomen.”
Mark was glaring at his phone, forgetting all manners of eye contact. He did the occasional “Mhm” and “Wow” as my story came to an end. I might’ve said I lost a limb from the shark attack, but that’s beside the fact.
I looked up at him. “Mark?”
He set his phone down gently and responded, “Yes?”
“What the fuck did I just say?”
Mark was caught off guard with my I’m-going-to-bite-your-dick-off smile and asshole tone.
“Um…you said something about surfing at the beach when you were younger!” he spoke innocently.
All I remember at this point is leaning in towards him and saying, “I told you I was attacked by a shark. Did you not hear my story?”
“Oh my God, Garrett! You were attacked by a shark?”
“No you fucking idiot. You have been on your phone this whole date and you know I was nervous about meeting you.”
I got up and left.
Chivalry has surely depleted but I will never settle for lack of respect.
Moral of the Story: If I can survive a shark attack, I can survive shitty dates, too.
Other Moral of the Story: If I can survive a shark attack, then I deserve a fancy steak here and there