A couple weeks ago I had the craziest first date ever. Well, actually, let me rephrase: I was the craziest first date ever. And what do you know, the guy loved it.
We met at a trendy Greek restaurant in the South Bay. I was feeling cute in a little red wrap dress; he was nice-looking in that East Coast preppy way. We have a huge dinner, conversation is flowing, we split a bottle of red wine, and by the meal’s end, it’s pretty obvious there’s chemistry. My neighbors are at a nearby table, and they invite us to come have a drink, but my date says he’d rather spend time just with me. Maybe take a walk on the beach? he suggested. Sure, I said.
I wanted to quickly check on my car, just to make the parking mafia hadn’t tagged me. So we walked to the garage, where—BAM—out of nowhere, three drunk teenage girls slammed into my perfect evening like a wrecking ball.
These chickies were “Mean Girls” incarnate, and falling-down sloppy wasted to boot. They were hanging out the back windows of what was obviously a parent’s station wagon, screeching like harpies. For no fathomable reason, they began to hurl gratuitously bitchy, obnoxious comments at me. It was so surreal. And so unpleasant.
The boy who was with them could not shush them. My date at first volleyed with some sarcastic New Yorker comments, but then said “They’re just young and obnoxious. Don’t pay attention.”
This was excellent advice in theory, but in reality, there were extenuating circumstances:
1. I’d had a half-bottle of a delightful Italian red.
2. I expect people to treat me politely.
3. I’m extremely confrontational
4. I hate sloppy drunks.
My date turned to leave the parking lot. Without putting any conscious thought into it, I bee-lined over to the screaming teens. The boy, who was the only one not in the car, gawped like a goldfish as I opened the door and crawled right into the backseat with the three young ladies.
Then, we all had a little talk about manners.
I’d like to say it went well, but truthfully, one girl just stared at me as though she suspected I was a hallucination, and one hysterically repeated, “Omigawd, just go away, go away, please go away,” until I wanted to stuff a sock in her mouth. The third, in an incredible show of bolshiness, whipped out her cell phone and started yapping as though I wasn’t sitting on her lap. This struck me as all kinds of impolite, so I wrenched the phone from her grasp and threw it out the window.
At this point, I was almost completely overtaken by a red adrenaline cloud of crazy, but fortunately I happened to glance up and see my date, peering concernedly through the window. A blast of reality hit like ice water: I am 30 years old, I am all togged out in a Grecian-style wrap dress, I am on a first date with a nice man. The haze in my head cleared, and I considered my choices:
A. Smack the hysterical screaming girl upside the head, thereby making her shut up. Write off the rest of the date. You can’t really recover from that.
B. Drag two of the girls out of the car and knock their heads together, just to teach them a valuable lesson. Then, make a quick getaway. Possibly be arrested for assault.
C. Get out of the car. Salvage the evening. Don’t act like a junkyard dog. Just go.
I chose C.
We exited the parking lot with apologies from the young ladies echoing behind us, and I came down from my adrenaline high just enough to feel very feisty and energetic.