The Worst First Date I Ever Had

I should have known the date was doomed when Marcus showed up wearing a fedora unironically and immediately launched into a twenty-minute monologue about cryptocurrency while we were still standing in the restaurant's lobby.

But here's the thing about me and bad decisions: I have an almost supernatural ability to convince myself that things will get better. It's like optimism mixed with stubborn denial, seasoned with a hefty dose of "well, I'm already here." Plus, I'd spent forty-five minutes perfecting my winged eyeliner, and that kind of artistry doesn't go to waste on a Tuesday night.

"The thing about Bitcoin," Marcus was saying as the hostess led us to our table, "is that most people don't understand the underlying blockchain technology." He adjusted his fedora, which I was beginning to suspect was permanently attached to his head. "But I've been mining since 2014, so I'm basically a crypto prophet."

I nodded politely while internally calculating how long I'd have to stay to avoid seeming rude. Thirty minutes? An hour? Surely I could survive one hour.

Two hours and forty-seven minutes later, I was still there, and Marcus had somehow managed to work cryptocurrency into every possible conversation topic. Appetizers? "You know, the restaurant industry would be revolutionized by blockchain payment systems." The weather? "Climate change is why I invested in solar-powered mining rigs." My job as a kindergarten teacher? "Five-year-olds should really learn about decentralized finance instead of finger painting."

I'm not even exaggerating. He literally suggested that naptime would be more productive if children spent it studying market volatility.

But the truly spectacular disaster began when our waiter, a college kid named Tyler who clearly recognized a sinking ship when he saw one, asked if we were ready to order.

"I'll have the salmon," I said, hoping to keep things simple.

Marcus cleared his throat dramatically. "Actually, she'll have the house salad, no dressing. She's watching her figure." He turned to me with what I can only describe as a condescending wink. "Trust me, babe, you'll thank me later."

The audacity was so breathtaking that I actually laughed out loud. Tyler's eyes widened, and I could see him mentally preparing to witness a murder.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice rising slightly, "did you just order for me?"

"Relax," Marcus said, completely missing the warning signs that even Tyler was picking up on. "I'm just looking out for you. I've got a good eye for what women need."

"What I need," I said sweetly, "is the salmon. Medium rare. With extra butter. And a side of the loaded mac and cheese. And let's start with the bacon-wrapped scallops."

Tyler was frantically scribbling, probably as much to hide his grin as to take the order.

Marcus looked genuinely confused. "But that's not very feminine—"

"Oh, we're doing gender roles now?" I interrupted. "How delightfully 1952 of you. Tell me, do you also think women shouldn't drive or vote?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"Because if we're going full traditional, shouldn't you be paying for this entire meal instead of suggesting we split it?" I'd heard him mention going Dutch to Tyler earlier, apparently assuming I wouldn't notice.

Marcus opened and closed his mouth like a fish, which was ironic considering I'd just ordered one.

The food arrived, and I have to give Marcus credit—he was nothing if not persistent in his ability to make everything worse. As I was enjoying my perfectly prepared salmon, he decided this was the ideal time to critique my eating technique.

"You know, you should cut smaller pieces," he said, gesturing with his fork. "It's more ladylike."

I looked at my perfectly normal-sized bite of fish, then at Marcus, then back at my fish. Then I took an even larger bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

"Fascinating feedback," I said after swallowing. "Any other critiques of my motor skills, or shall we move on to my breathing technique?"

But Marcus was just getting warmed up. Over the course of the main course, he managed to:

- Explain why my college degree in education was "cute but not practical"

- Suggest I should consider a career change to something "more suitable for my personality type" (he never specified what my personality type was, but apparently it involved filing)

- Correct my pronunciation of "quinoa" (I was pronouncing it correctly; he was not)

- Tell me I would be "so much prettier" if I smiled more

- Ask if I was "one of those feminists" after I mentioned reading a book by a female author

By this point, Tyler had started hovering nearby, clearly invested in this trainwreck and possibly ready to intervene if things got physical. Other diners were starting to notice too. I caught the couple at the next table exchanging worried glances.

The breaking point came when Marcus noticed I had pulled out my phone to check the time.

"That's so rude," he said loudly enough for half the restaurant to hear. "This is why women can't have meaningful conversations. Always distracted by social media."

The entire restaurant seemed to pause. Even the kitchen went quiet.

"You're absolutely right," I said, putting my phone away. "How inconsiderate of me to check the time when I could be listening to you explain why my life choices are wrong."

"Now you're being dramatic—"

"Am I? Because in the last two hours, you've criticized my food choices, my career, my education, my eating habits, my facial expressions, and my phone usage. But please, tell me more about how I'm the dramatic one."

Marcus's fedora seemed to wilt slightly. "I was just trying to help—"

"Help with what, exactly? Help me become a different person? Because if that's your goal, you might want to start with yourself."

The silence that followed was beautiful. Even the ambient restaurant music seemed to pause in respect.

That's when Tyler appeared at our table like an angel of mercy, clearing his throat delicately.

"Would you folks like to see our dessert menu?" he asked, and I swear there was a twinkle in his eye.

Now, here's where the story takes an unexpected turn. Because despite everything—despite the fedora, the mansplaining, the ordering-for-me incident, and the general catastrophe of the entire evening—I found myself saying, "Yes, I would love to see the dessert menu."

Marcus looked stunned. "Really? After all this?"

"Oh, not 'we,'" I clarified. "Just me. You can go ahead and leave."

"But—"

"Marcus," I said gently, "this has been educational. I've learned that there are still people in the world who think fedoras are acceptable evening wear and that cryptocurrency can somehow be worked into every conversation topic known to humanity. But mostly, I've learned that life is too short to skip dessert just because the company is terrible."

He sputtered for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether to be offended or confused. He settled on both.

"You're going to stay here alone?"

"I'm going to stay here with Tyler and this excellent dessert menu and the lovely couple at the next table who have been thoroughly entertained by our conversation." I gestured to our neighbors, who waved cheerfully.

Marcus stood up, his fedora slightly askew, and for a moment I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Your loss," he muttered, pulling out his wallet.

"Actually," I said, "I think this one's on you. You know, traditional gender roles and all."

After he left—fedora and wounded pride intact—Tyler brought me the most magnificent slice of New York cheesecake I've ever seen, along with a complimentary glass of wine "from the management, with their compliments and apologies for the entertainment."

The couple at the next table, Jim and Carol, invited me to join them for coffee. It turned out they'd been married for thirty-seven years and had never seen anything quite like my dinner theater performance.

"I've never seen someone dismantle a man's ego while maintaining perfect table manners," Carol said admiringly.

"It's a gift," I replied, savoring another bite of cheesecake.

Jim raised his coffee cup in a toast. "To women who know their worth and excellent dessert choices."

We spent another hour talking and laughing, and I learned more about life, love, and the secret to a good marriage from Jim and Carol than I had from six months of dating apps combined.

As I finally prepared to leave, Tyler came over with the check.

"That meal is on the house," he said. "Management policy for customers who provide dinner theater."

"Is that a real policy?"

"It is now."

Walking to my car, I reflected on the evening's events. Yes, it had been objectively the worst first date of my life. Marcus had managed to hit every red flag in the dating handbook, some of them multiple times. But somehow, it had also turned into one of the most entertaining nights I'd had in months.

The cheesecake had been perfect. The company (once improved) had been delightful. And I'd discovered that standing up for yourself in public comes with surprising rewards, including free dessert and new friends.

Plus, I had the best story to tell at brunch the next weekend.

Three months later, I got a friend request from Marcus on social media, along with a message explaining that he'd "done some thinking" and wondered if I wanted to give him another chance. His profile picture was still him in a fedora, and his most recent post was about Bitcoin reaching a new high.

I declined the friend request but sent him a message back: "Thanks, but I'm seeing someone now. His name is Tyler, he's a philosophy major who works at restaurants to pay for school, and he's never once told me how to cut my food. Also, he thinks fedoras are only appropriate for jazz funerals and costume parties."

The last part wasn't entirely true—Tyler and I had only been on two dates at that point. But Marcus didn't need to know that. And Tyler really did have strong opinions about fedoras.

Six months later, Tyler and I were engaged. We had our wedding reception at the same restaurant where we met, and Jim and Carol were our honorary grandparents. The wedding cake? New York cheesecake, naturally.

Sometimes the worst experiences lead to the best outcomes. But mostly, they just lead to really good stories and the reminder that you should never, ever skip dessert.

Life lesson: When a date goes catastrophically wrong, stick around for dessert. You never know what kind of sweetness might follow the disaster—and cheesecake has never once criticized your life choices or suggested you'd be prettier if you smiled more.