If my dating life were a museum, it would be one of those weird, roadside attractions you only visit on a dare. You know the type: “The Museum of Questionable Taxidermy” or “The International House of Spoons.” It would be a chaotic collection of awkward silences, conversational cul-de-sacs, and moments that made me question the collective sanity of the human race. And in the main hall, under a flickering fluorescent light, would be the grand exhibit: my top three worst first dates. Admission is free, but the emotional baggage is yours to keep.
🥈 Exhibit A: The Doorknob Historian
I met him on an app, where his profile listed his interests as “history, architecture, and good conversation.” This, I thought, was promising. I envisioned stimulating chats about Roman aqueducts or Gothic cathedrals. I was wrong. His version of “history and architecture” was a laser-focused, terrifyingly deep obsession with artisanal doorknobs of the 18th century. We met at a coffee shop, and for the first ten minutes, things felt normal. He asked my name. He asked what I did. Then, he spotted the brass handle on the café’s door and his eyes glazed over.
“That,” he said, pointing with a trembling finger, “is a shocking replica of a pre-revolutionary Lorient-style handle. The patina is all wrong.” For the next forty-five minutes, I was treated to a nonstop monologue. I learned about the political implications of pewter versus brass, the socio-economic storytelling of a keyhole’s design, and the scandalous rivalry between two French locksmiths whose names I have long since blocked from memory. I tried to interject. “That’s really interesting,” I’d say, hoping to pivot. “It reminds me of a trip I took to…” But he’d just nod, take a quick sip of his macchiato, and use my sentence as a launching pad into the riveting world of Georgian-era knob craftsmanship. I sat there, a hostage in a caffeine-scented lecture hall, my soul slowly shriveling. The only question he asked me after his initial flurry was, “You’re not a ‘lever handle’ person, are you?” I assured him I wasn’t, mostly because I was afraid of the answer.
🥈 Exhibit B: The Garage Gourmand
Mark was a self-proclaimed “foodie.” His profile was a gallery of blurry paellas and oddly angled photos of charcuterie boards. He promised to take me somewhere “truly unique, an underground spot that only the real food-lovers know about.” I was intrigued. I imagined a hidden bistro down a cobblestone alley. What I got was a garage. Not a restaurant in a converted garage. An actual, oil-stained, two-car garage at his friend’s suburban house.
“Welcome,” he beamed, gesturing to a fold-out card table set with two mismatched chairs, “to ‘The Gilded Spatula.’” His friend, a man named Kevin who was wearing an unironic chef’s hat, was searing a single, lonely scallop with a blowtorch. The air smelled of gasoline and garlic. Mark explained that they were “disrupting the culinary scene” with their pop-up. The menu consisted of one dish: “deconstructed fish tacos.” This translated to a cold tortilla, a flake of sad, overcooked cod, a dollop of sour cream, and three individual kernels of corn arranged in a triangle. We ate this masterpiece while Kevin’s cat watched us from atop a stack of old tires. Mark kept asking, “Can you taste the innovation?” I could taste the dust. The date ended when I politely declined the dessert course—a Twinkie served on a bed of crushed Oreos—and made my escape, my stomach rumbling and my faith in the foodie movement shattered.
🥈 Exhibit C: The Emotional Exhibitionist
Some people have a filter. Paul, my third entry into this hall of fame, had a gaping, open wound where his filter should have been. We met for a quiet drink, and he came out of the gate swinging. Before I’d even learned his last name, I learned that his ex-wife, Brenda, had left him for her Zumba instructor. He didn’t just tell me this; he illustrated it with a photo gallery on his phone. “This is Brenda,” he said, showing me a picture of a smiling woman on a jet ski. “And this… this is Rico, the Zumba guy. Look at his calves. Unforgivable.”
From there, the conversational floodgates burst open. I learned about his agonizing battle with a persistent toenail fungus, complete with a graphic description of a recent podiatrist visit. I learned about his controversial political theories, which seemed to be based entirely on YouTube videos and his uncle’s emails. I learned about his childhood hamster’s untimely demise in a tragic vacuum cleaner incident. He wasn’t just sharing; he was emotionally fire-hosing me. I sat there, nursing my drink, my face frozen in a mask of polite interest. My brain was screaming, but all I could do was nod and say, “Wow, that’s a lot.” I spent the entire date trying to find a conversational handhold—the weather, a TV show, the interesting texture of the coaster—but he always managed to steer it back to his own personal vortex of tragedy and oversharing. The date concluded with him crying softly into his beer and asking if I thought Brenda ever missed him. I told him I had to go home to water my plants, a lie he accepted with a sniffle. As I walked away, I felt a strange sense of relief. At least he gave me a good story. All three of them did. They are the star attractions in my museum of romantic mishaps, forever enshrined as proof that sometimes, the only thing you can do is laugh.