Sporting Mismatch

 

M and I met through mutual acquaintances in a smoky sports bar. It was football season and I watched in horror as my Broncos lost yet another game to a team that should have been no contest.  M laughed. He liked the Cowboys; this should have been my first sign. Ignoring his love for the only team I legitimately hate, I gave M my number. After all he was cute and had a smile that drew me in breaking the barriers of sports rivalries. Within in a few days M called me asking me to dinner near where I live. This seemed like a kind gesture as he lived an hour away so I readily accepted. 
Putting on my makeup and favorite black dress, I felt invincibly hot. The sort of hot that makes a girl feel she can take over the world one man at a time. Apparently, M had different plans; showing up at my door in dusty ball cap and dirty jeans. He’s from a small town, I thought, I’ll let it slide.  So off we went to a nice little Italian bistro as I attempted to overlook the fact that I was obviously overdressed.  
Ordering my pasta, I looked as M expressed a state of confusion and admitted to knowing only spaghetti and pizza when it came to Italian food.  I offered to order for him and after a few mumbles amounting to “spicy” and “meat” I finally picked something off the menu that I hoped he’d like. 
As the food was place on the table I looked in horror as M picked up his fork and proceeded to use his fingers to wrap his pasta around his fork.  One, two, three, around and around he wrapped his pasta before forcing huge bites into his wide-open mouth.  As he smacked and chewed with sauce upon his cheeks, his “cute smile” no longer drew me in, but utterly and completely turned me off as I watched each bite he took.  I totally lost my appetite but he finished his dish, then mine, then a loaf of bread and finally urged for dessert. Declining the sweets, I asked quietly if he was ready to leave.
“Of course, babe,” he said. “Can’t wait to hop in your bed.”
I looked at him quizzically and without even missing a beat he said, “Well, I’m obviously not driving home, that’s a crazy drive.”
M drove home and never drove back again.

Football

M and I met through mutual acquaintances in a smoky sports bar. It was football season and I watched in horror as my Broncos lost yet another game to a team that should have been no contest. M laughed. He liked the Cowboys; this should have been my first sign. Ignoring his love for the only team I legitimately hate, I gave M my number. After all, he was cute and had a smile that drew me in, breaking the barriers of sports rivalries. Within in a few days, M called to ask me out to dinner near where I live. This seemed like a kind gesture as he lived an hour away so I readily accepted. 

Putting on my makeup and favorite black dress, I felt invincibly hot. The sort of hot that makes a girl feel she can take over the world one man at a time. Apparently, M had different ideas. He showed up at my door in a dusty ball cap and dirty jeans. He’s from a small town, I thought, I’ll let it slide.  So off we went to a nice little Italian bistro while I tried hard to overlook the fact that I was obviously overdressed.  

While I decided I’d have pasta, M expressed a state of confusion and admitted knowledge of only spaghetti and pizza when it came to Italian food.  I offered to order for him. After a few mumbles amounting to “spicy” and “meat” from him, I finally picked something off the menu that I hoped he’d like. 

When the food arrived, I looked in horror as M picked up his fork and proceeded to use his fingers to wrap his pasta around the fork. One, two, three, around and around he wrapped before forcing huge bites into his wide-open mouth. As he smacked and chewed with sauce upon his cheeks, his “cute smile” no longer drew me in, but utterly and completely turned me off as I watched each bite he took. I totally lost my appetite but he finished his dish, then mine, then a loaf of bread and finally suggested dessert. Declining the offer, I asked quietly if he was ready to leave.

“Of course, babe,” he said. “Can’t wait to hop in your bed.”

I looked at him quizzically and without missing a beat, he said, “Well, I’m obviously not driving home, that’s a crazy drive.”

M drove home and never drove back again.

July 13th, 2009 in Just Plain Pathetic, WTF?
Comments (9)
dogfaceJuly 13th, 2009 at 8:44 am

Yarg! There are few things that squick me out more than people who eat like pigs. Although I suppose his piggish table manners complement his piggish personality quite nicely. :c

wendyJuly 13th, 2009 at 9:27 am

An hour drive is not a “crazy” drive. Anything over two is ;)

grievouserrorJuly 13th, 2009 at 11:15 am

It’s stories like this that remind me of why I don’t date. Not that I’ve had the misfortune of meeting anyone quite so icky, but I’m always worried that I might actually *be* someone this icky. After all, most people think they have good senses of humor and are above average drivers, yet cursory observation and elementary math clearly demonstrate that this can’t be true.

Frau BlucherAugust 23rd, 2009 at 4:46 am

at least he lives an hour away….so you won’t be running into him at the mall or something. ew.

arkNovember 28th, 2009 at 7:43 pm

this is goddamn hilarious. i can’t get over wrapping pasta on your fork BY HAND!! who does that???

DivaJanuary 8th, 2010 at 1:53 am

yucky , very very yucky, i am sure i couldn’t sit through the meal watching him eat like that. your patience must be complimented.

AndrewJanuary 28th, 2010 at 5:38 am

Well, at least you looked hot. That counts for something.

JessicaJuly 24th, 2010 at 9:46 pm

eww

RachelMay 20th, 2011 at 3:19 pm

Ugh–I hate the ‘long drive’ excuse. And, yes, guys, it is that transparantly obvious when YOU chose a place to eat, and that place to eat suddenly becomes an unbearable distance from YOUR place in the hour it takes to eat.

We used to have a guy where I worked who would always pretend to be too tired to drive home at the end of the night. And he never asked if he could ‘crash’ at a guy’s place. Even if there were 6 guys and 1 girl at the end of the shift…you definately knew who would fend off the ‘but I’m tired!’ whining. Yes, he lived 30 miles away. No one made him take a job where I worked, and most of his co-workers would have liked him to be someplace where the drive was shorter, anyway.

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