So I'm 24, newly single, and teetering between hopeful and what the hell am I doing. I match with this guy on a dating app. He's 36. A little older, but I figured, hey, maybe he's mature. Has his life together. Knows how to order wine without making it weird.
He suggests a fancy steakhouse. Like, fancy-fancy. White tablecloths. Candlelight. The kind of place where they don't print the prices on the menu and the waiters pronounce "filet" like they just got back from Paris.
It's an hour away, but I agree. Why? Because I was still in that magical post-divorce stage called "I deserve something nice," mixed with a touch of "delusional optimism."
I get there on time.
He does not.
I wait in my car for thirty minutes before texting him. He says he's "on his way, just running a little late." I hang tight for another half hour, like the hopeful idiot I was, and finally head inside.
That's where I meet her, my unexpected date savior.
The waitress is a queen. Within minutes we're trash-talking his lateness like old friends. She's funny, sharp, and keeps checking on me like I'm her little sister on her first Bumble date. I order water and an appetizer because I can't afford this place on my own and she knows. She doesn't judge. She vibes.
Another full hour passes. Yes. One. More. Hour.
Then I get the call.
He sounds chill. Too chill. Says, "Oh yeah, I'm still on my way. Didn't realize I was like… two and a half hours from you."
Sir.
How do you pick a restaurant you suggested and not even check the damn distance?
At this point I'm halfway through my appetizer, emotionally married to the waitress, and calculating how fast I can ghost this entire situation. But like a fool, I wait.
He arrives.
Two full hours late.
And I immediately think, "I've been bait-and-switched by someone's retirement-age uncle."
This man is not 36. I'd be shocked if he was under 60. He walks in with all the confidence of someone who once opened for a Bon Jovi cover band in 1989 and never emotionally moved on.
Turns out he's 55.
FIFTY. FIVE.
Older than my father. If he had tucked a Werther's Original behind my ear and called me "darlin'," I would've just accepted my fate and melted into the floor.
"Are you Lola?" he asks.
And I, stupidly polite, Midwestern-trained not to cause scenes, nod and say, "Yeah... and you are?"
He beams. "Michael! From the app!"
Like this is normal. Like this is fine. Like we're not in a live-action episode of To Catch a Predator.
He sits down. No apology. No explanation. Just vibes.
Then he says the line that should be in the Dating Red Flag Hall of Fame:
"Wow, you look exactly like your profile picture!"
And I blink. Because… he doesn't.
At all.
"Uh… you don't," I say.
He laughs. "Oh yeah, I just don't have any recent photos of myself. Also, the app wouldn't let me update my age."
Right.
You're a lineman supervisor, not 98 years old. You can handle a dropdown menu.
But wait, it gets better.
We sit down (I guess I'm committed now?), and he immediately starts ordering for me. Doesn't even glance to ask what I want.
Thankfully, he ordered something I could tolerate, but I was too busy being assaulted by his life story to care.
He continues like nothing's wrong and proceeds to turn our date into a personal TED Talk, featuring his favorite subject: himself.
Three hours.
Three. Full. Hours.
Of him bragging about his house, his car, his job, his money, his boat. (Of course there's a boat.)
He doesn't stop to ask about me. Because he's too busy showing me videos and pictures on his phone like he's running a one-man film festival. Memes. Home videos. Something with a goat? I don't know. He's laughing. I'm blinking in Morse code to the waitress.
At one point, I looked around for hidden cameras. Surely this was a prank show. Or a social experiment. Or karma in disguise.
And yes. He was on his phone for 90% of the date.
Not exaggerating. I'm sitting there like a prop. The audacity was so thick I could've buttered a roll with it.
He even shows me pictures of his kids, because why not?
His daughter is gorgeous. A nurse. And 26, two years older than me.
His son? Age 29.
Hot AF.
Like… why am I here? Is your son single? Does he also like women who order water and appetizers with crushing dignity?
While he's talking, he keeps grabbing my hand. Stroking my arm. At one point, he reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear.
We are in a public restaurant.
I'm frozen somewhere between horrified and dissociating, like a Victorian woman about to faint from emotional overstimulation.
Then, THEN! he says this:
"I'm looking for a trophy wife. You'd be perfect… once you get a boob job, of course."
And that, my friends, is when my soul filed for emancipation. I didn't know whether to scream, cry, or call my therapist to thank her preemptively for the extra income.
He says this so casually, like he's asking if I want dessert.
I think I blacked out for a second. When I came to, I was mentally calculating how much force it would take to stab a steak knife through the tablecloth and into his thigh.
Eventually, finally, the date ends.
As we walk out, I'm preparing to sprint to my car like I'm evading a T. rex.
But Michael has other plans.
He stops beside his truck (of course it's a truck), leans against it like a man who thinks he's in a Viagra commercial, and says:
"Wanna come sit with me for a bit? Just talk. I'll even turn the heat on."
No. No, sir. No one wants to be love-bombed and boob-shamed in a Chevy Silverado.
I decline. Politely but firmly. He nods like I'm playing hard to get.
Then he leans in for a kiss.
I dodge. I pivot. I swerve. But he is determined, and ends up licking my cheek.
HE. LICKED. MY. CHEEK.
Like a sad golden retriever trying to show affection to a brick wall.
I get in my car, lock the doors, and sit there in horrified silence.
Then, because the universe has a sense of humor, he texts me.
"That was amazing. You're incredible. I can't wait to see you again."
I responded with a list.
A bullet-pointed, time-stamped, no-holds-barred Top Reasons This Date Was a Dumpster Fire:
1. You were two hours late.
2. You lied about your age.
3. You catfished me with a photo from the Bush administration.
4. You ordered my food without asking.
5. You monologued like a Bond villain.
6. You touched me repeatedly without consent.
7. You told me to get a boob job.
8. You invited me into your truck.
9. Being glued to his phone
10. You tried to kiss me with TONGUE!
11. You licked me, Michael. You. Licked. Me.
He never responded. Probably because he's now emotionally licking some other poor woman's face.