Vette Regret

Phil and I had been texting for two days — just two — when he invited himself on a four-hour drive from Vancouver to Kamloops to meet me. Time was of the essence. He’d previously wasted a whole week messaging another woman, only to complain that her body wasn’t “appropriately proportioned” enough for him when they met.

"I like women to be proportionate," he told me. "The broad's ass was way too fat for me. I'm very picky. And a woman can't be taller than me in heels either. Drives me nuts."

I immediately inquired as to whether or not he had a washer board stomach.

He laughed, "No! Not at all!" Right.

Since I’m top-heavy, I figured maybe I was more his “type,” and he seemed harmless enough. Funny, even. Slightly pretentious, yes — but in a “he probably orders sparkling water at restaurants” kind of way. Not in a “he’s going to make me regret every decision I’ve made since installing Bumble” kind of way.

"Are you a boob man, then?" I wanted to know.

"No, I'm an ass man all the way," he said, "I think boobs are overrated. Women popping out everywhere, showing their big boobs. Gross."

Well, you are going to be disappointed, I thought wryly.

I asked him if he'd like to video chat and did my due diligence to make sure Phil knew exactly what he was getting into. And possibly save him the long drive. He remained undeterred nonetheless.

Around 10am the next day, he rolled into Kamloops in a brand-new convertible silver Corvette — black leather interior, polished within an inch of its life, not a speck of dust. The engine purred like a smug jungle cat on testosterone therapy. He stepped out in sunglasses that probably cost more than my mortgage payment, his shirt unbuttoned one-too-many, smelling faintly of Tom Ford and misplaced confidence.

“Ready to hit the town?” he grinned, as if the interior of Hello Toast was a red carpet event.

We zipped off. Top down. Wind in my face. Ego fumes pouring out of the driver’s seat. I'd never been in a convertible Corvette before, so I had to admit the ride was a blast! He was hungry, so I chose one of my favorite breakfast joints that had great food and service downtown on Victoria Street.

Now, Hello Toast is a beloved little Kamloops gem — family-run, quirky, boho-cozy, with breakfast so good people have literally proposed over the Eggs Benny. But Captain Corvette? He took one bite of his sausage, scrunched his face, and muttered, "This place is a joke. Sausage is overdone. They should rename this place Goodbye Toast.”

Then came the conversation.

Is undelightful a word? Well, it is now.

In the span of 15 minutes, he covered why he doesn’t feel guilty about being White. “It’s exhausting how everyone else wants us to feel bad.”

Then he launched into why he should be able to say the N-word if it’s in rap songs and I must have a lot of 'White Guilt' if I refuse to even utter that word.

"Guess so!" I responded, chewing my perfectly cooked Eggs Benny.

And, oh yes — lastly came a totally unsolicited monologue about how “frugal” Jewish people are, with a knowing wink. And he didn't say it that politely either...

I stared into my coffee and wondered how painful it would be to pour it directly into my ears.

The bill came. He paid. We left.

His precious Corvette couldn’t handle a gravel road, so we swapped into my humble, faithful and dusty Ford F150 with the broken Tonno cover and headed to Isabelle Lake for a light — and I mean light — scenic loop around the water. It’s less “hike” and more “slightly inclined nature stroll.”

To give you a better idea, a guy in a wheelchair passed us.

Not even halfway around the lake trail, he suddenly veered off into the cattails like he’d heard a spiritual calling from the marsh.

“Hey!” I warned. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you — the edge drops off, and there are leeches in there! And snapping turtles!”

He waved me off and, in a baffling move, flopped himself down on what he must have assumed was Nature's Beanbag — a large rounded grassy mound.

“Uh... why would you sit THERE?” I asked, squinting at the gigantic ant hill.

He gave me a nonchalant shrug — just as hundreds (not an exaggeration) of red ants swarmed up his legs, across his back, into his overpriced socks.

The screaming started then. And dancing around. And flapping.

We slapped them off in a flailing dance that looked like an exorcism set to bad EDM. I won’t lie — I enjoyed that part. A lot.

Eventually, covered in bites, wounded pride, and probably a few larvae, he demanded to drive my dusty truck home.

As he gripped the steering wheel with ant-bitten fingers, he sniffed and said, “You should clean this thing. It’s so dusty it needs a douche.”

Then: “If you did maintenance on it, you wouldn’t need to trade in a nine-year-old truck and go into debt.”

"Why would you assume that?” I asked, confused but calm.

He shrugged. “Well, can you afford a new truck for cash?”

I could, actually. But I didn’t see the point in defending myself. Guys like him wouldn’t believe it anyway.

As we approached the Corvette, I was ready to end this date with minimal words. But, of course, he had more to say.

“What did you think of our first date?” I asked — mostly to see how far the train would derail.

“Honestly, not feeling it,” he said. “We’re too different. You're not fat —- that other chick was fat. You don’t have enough mechanical knowledge to be dateable for me.”

“Totally fair,” I said. “I respect your decision.” Thank God.

I guess while I was busy raising two children on my own, taking care of a big house and yard, and building a corporation I missed taking a mechanical aptitude test, but, "Oh well." I was sure I would live.

Case in point: He had no kids and his longest relationship was three months.

So, that should’ve been it. Exit stage left.

But he kept on going. About how “compatibility matters,” how “intelligence comes in many forms” (spoiler: his), and how I “seemed like the type who’d forget to check tire pressure.”

I interrupted him twice to let him know I didn't need further insight into why I didn't meet his specifications. It was getting really awkward.

Finally, we got back to the Vette and parked.

He handed me my keys and stretched out his arms like a self-satisfied sea lion. “Hug?”

I shook my head. Hopped into my truck. Slammed the door.

Then, in one glorious moment of petty vengeance, I floored it — fishtailing hard enough to kick up a gritty, glorious cloud of sand and dust, completely crop-dusting his Corvette.

I watched him standing there in the rearview, dust-coated Corvette behind him, swatting one last ant off his neck like the final insult from nature itself.

He looked stunned. Like maybe, just maybe, the universe had gently tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hey buddy — maybe you’re the red flag.”

I smiled to myself, turned up the radio, and let the gravel sing under my tires.

"Who needs a douche now?" I laughed as I sped off down the road.

It turns out, all it takes to shake off a bad date is a full tank, four-wheel drive, and a reminder that my self-worth has absolutely nothing to do with the opinion of a man who treats ant hills like bean bags and thinks misogyny is a personality.

I didn't need his Corvette.

I didn't need his approval.

And I definitely didn’t need his hug.

I needed exactly what I had:

My truck.

My peace.

And a damn good story for brunch.

What I learned:

1. If he leads with a woman’s body type as a deal breaker, he’s not looking for connection — he’s looking for a mannequin.

2. If someone casually defends using racial slurs in the first 15 minutes, you’re not on a date — you’re in a Reddit thread.

3. Never trust a man who treats a red ant hill like a meditation cushion.

4. If he insults your truck, your financial decisions, and your mechanical aptitude all in one drive — he’s not boyfriend material, he’s Judge Judy.

5. And most importantly: You can lose a few extra pounds, but you sure can't lose a shitty personality!