After writing one of my most recent posts about my first ever break-up that occurred when I was about 8 years old, I started thinking about my dating history as a whole. It only took me about ten minutes because prior to meeting Husband, I think I went on about fifteen dates my entire life and had only one other serious relationship, but that’s all moot. Because the first few minutes were undoubtedly colorful and magnificent.
Let’s talk about blind dates for just a minute. Blind dates are probably the dumbest societal creation of all time (no, wait, that might actually be “Jersey Shore”) — you rely on your friends, who are probably either equally as single as you and therefore just as jaded or super married and therefore stuck in the love bubble, making them as distracted as toddlers in Disneyland, to find a suitable mate for you. This is a bad, bad plan. Things that make it worse: relying on college roommates.
So this one time, my three roommates, who were about as opposite as me as other people could be and still maintain similar gender and species, and I came up with this brilliant plan. We’d have a group date (red flag #1 because they were not exactly the types of girls I wanted to spend any sort of evening with) and choose each other’s dates. Brilliant. Nothing could possibly go wrong here. As it turned out, the three of them had men they were either dating or interested in, so the choices were more or less theirs. I, on the other hand, was kind of stumped.
Or maybe I wasn’t — there’s the possibility that one of them asked the guy I wanted and he wasn’t interested/available. I can’t really remember.
And then once we chose each other’s mates, who would probably end up eternal and everlasting, we would also choose each other’s dinners (SO MUCH FUN! SO NOVEL! Utah is weird.) and come back to the apartment to eat and have oodles of fun. Oodles of it.
I certainly had my reservations about my Utahn roommate, who pronounced the city from where she came “Hurrrr-i-ken” (Hurricane) and had so much Utah accent that my parents had to hold an intervention to get it out of me that following summer, but I figured she knew me well enough that she’d make, at the very least, a mediocre choice. She knew I was from the suburbs of Oregon, she knew I preferred city life, she knew that I was remarkably extroverted, and she knew I was liberal beyond belief, so there was no way I’d end up with a guy like …
… a fellow in a cowboy hat, wearing Wranglers and cowboy boots, with a tendency to be a slow, slow speaker. Also an introvert.
*SPOILER ALERT: we did not go out again.*
The date was unquestionably one of my most awkward; it didn’t take us very long to realize we were on very opposite ends of all spectrums in regards to everything, and his lack of conversation mixed with my lack of interest carrying on a conversation by myself made for a lot of uncomfortable silence. I don’t even remember his name. But I remember those cowboy boots. They were kind of rad, actually, but he didn’t strike me as the type of guy who wore cowboy boots to be rad.