Anatomy Of A Bad Date

I have two words that should never join together for the purpose of a date. Especially a first date. Ready? Taco Bell. Nothing says romance like a Nachos Bell Grande combo. Now, I have my high maintenance moments, but you really can take the girl out of Connecticut. I wear my lipstick pajama pants to the grocery store and find makeup to be more of a nuisance than a necessity. Yet, Taco Bell? Am I expecting too much? If faux Mexican was the mood du jour, couldn’t we have hit up Chili’s? Hell, I’d even pay for my freaking self. Anything to circumvent these other two words I’m feeling as a result of Taco Bell – In Digestion.

I should rewind a bit and confess what fault I own in the debacle I am about to unfurl. I have a hard time saying no. As “tigress fab” as I am, I melt like an M&M on a hot car seat when a guy asks me out. Correction: when a sketchy dude asks me out. When someone of interest makes the first move, hey! I’m all over it. Let’s go right now! What’s the hold up! I’ll go grab the car. However, when cornered by the long lost fourth stooge, I feel myself lump into a pile of mush. Who am I to say no? Do I think I’m better than he is just because I have more hair? More height? Guilt dissolves me into a virtual puddle at his feet as a reluctant “yes” squeaks from my lips.

This is how I found myself on my drive-thru dream date du jour. I thought he was kidding when he selected the value meal route for our liaison. Obviously, cost was going to be an issue, but surely there are more creative ways to address the affordability piece. I’m a modern woman; I’m all for paying for myself! Especially on a first date (and in this case only date) scenario! Who says food even needs to be involved? Why, there’s always coffee, meeting at the bookstore. Hey, come with me to plant trees for community service at 7:00 am, and we’ll see how much you really like me…

I try not to be too judgmental (who am I kidding) – I’m not exactly Heidi Klum over here – but let’s call a spade a spade. Actually, he kind of looked like a spade. I had at least a good two inches on him, and that was sans heels. That vantage point gave me a very good view of his balding head and the hair pouring over the back of his shirt. Queso anyone? What he lacked in height, he made up for in girth and a most peculiar odor. Sitting across from him in our cozy little booth, the truth of his financial situation was revealed to me. Unemployed and almost thirty, he was currently living in the basement of his “friend’s parent’s” house. Uh huh. Until he could “find himself”. Uh huh. And that’s when he breaks out the bottle of white wine from his messenger bag . I’m not kidding. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. It had a bright orange $2.99 sticker right on the neck. Granted, it was white, but at that point he would have needed to break out a bottle of Grey Goose to even think about redemption.

So, boys and girls, what did we learn from Miss Christie’s waltz through Taco Hell?