A Date So Horrible I Preferred to Spend a Saturday Night Alone

I watched a lot of Disney movies growing up, so love at first sight is ingrained in my brain, like the lyrics of my favorite songs. I’m the princess, okay? This means every prince who crosses my path is supposed to immediately fall in love with me and make our happily ever after happen. It’s so vexing when the prince turns out to be a frog. I have no choice but to move on to the next one. Or… I could pause and reflect on why I kept going after Peter Pans with no fucking interest in relationships. Less than a year out from a divorce and in the wake of a failed relationship with a Lost Boy that would have been a big ask of myself at the time — I simply wasn’t there yet. Instead, I agreed to go on a date with an older guy who’d been texting me for months. 

One of the first friends I made when I moved to Florida was Jake. He was the animal sidekick to my princess but not the fun, loving, supportive kind like a Flounder or a Scuttle. Jake was Flotsam and Jetsam sent by an evil force to dash my hopes. He relished any opportunity to prove my dream guy didn’t exist, and in turn, I made it clear he had no chance in hell with me. Since I was new to town and knew one, I put up with Jake’s bullshit because he knew a lot of people. One of those people was Miguel. The first night we met, I flirted shamelessly with him. Not because I was interested; I wanted to be an asshole to Jake and firmly remind him of his friendzone status. Miguel was a pawn in this scheme. I fawned, “Oh, me, too!” to everything we had in common, from divorce to breathing air. I did a great job because Jake was thoroughly pissed with me that night. However, he threw the final blow. After I stopped hanging out with Jake, he gave Miguel my number.  

Two months later, Miguel texted me: “I swear I don’t have a hand fetish. But when I shook your hand the night we met, I was bewitched.” The hand fetish shit and his connection to Jake were nonstarters to me. I shot Miguel down.

Fast-forward six months. I was drinking rosé with my newfound bestie and party partner, Brittany. We had both recently left long-term relationships, and more than a little delulu, we happily supported one another (or encouraged bad behavior. Whatever, same-same). The two of us were a classic, head-turning blond and brunette duo.

 I was salty after a budding romance turned out to be a fake plastic bud. My latest frog in a prince’s royal robes was straight up with me—he was DTF, and that was it. He had already found The One, but she left him brokenhearted and jaded. Even though the guy did me a favor, I still couldn’t help feeling indignant.

“What the fuck is with these guys?” I took a long drink of my rosé to wash away the disgust. “Everyone gets their heart broken! Get over it.” I scowled at the sky. “And if you’re so butthurt, leave women alone completely. ” 

“Girl, I know.” Brittany tipped her glass to my sermon.

“I was fine before I met him. I didn’t need his bullshit.” My phone buzzed, and the name on the screen further enraged me. “Then there’s this fucking Miguel guy! He’s been texting for months, and I keep saying no. He won’t leave me alone.”

“Is he cute?” Brittany cocked her eyebrow.

“Ummm…” I laughed. “I don’t remember what he looks like. He was tall and Brazilian. He was older, maybe late forties or early fifties. Not ugly? I don’t know.”

“Does he have money?”

“Yeah, he seemed well off.” I shrugged.

“What does he want?”

“Take me on a date.”

“Go.” 

I sat up straighter. “Should I?”

“Yes!” It was Brittany’s turn to preach. “This will be perfect for you. Get dressed up cute, go to a nice dinner, get some compliments, and you’ll forget all about what’s his face.” Brittany tried to convince me for months that any man who enjoyed my company should pay for everything because I was a pretty girl. If they wanted to admire the beauty of the masterpiece, they had to pay the cost of admission — dinner and drinks. However, many of these men thought they were getting admission to an interactive (and hopefully immersive) art experience. 

“Aren’t we hanging out tomorrow?” I looked at Brittany.

“Nope. I got a trip.” 

“Oh.” I sighed. The thought of a Friday night alone with only my dust-covered daydreams of a lost romance to keep me company was unbearable. Or even worse, sucking it up and texting Jake. No freaking way that was happening.

“Well, why not then?” I put both hands up. “It’s just dinner, not like I’m gonna have the guy’s babies. Fuck it.” Brittany and I clinked our glasses, and the plan was settled. 

Miguel picked me up the following night. Immediately, I knew I’d made a mistake. He looked like an older Justin Long. Not like the sort of cool Justin Long with some swag from He’s Just Not That Into You, but the super nerd version from Dodgeball. Even though he wasn’t wearing New Balance sneakers and a sweater vest, his outfit had no style or swag that was the usual standard of the Lauderdale social scene. There was something so grandpa about him that even the lack of grey hairs couldn’t make up for it.

The grandpa vibes only got worse as we drove to the restaurant. He wore glasses but struggled to see street signs, changing signal lights, and other cars. Even the giant flat screen with directions less than two feet before him was useless. And he drove slow as fuck. I could’ve walked faster. How does he drive so badly? It’s a Tesla. These things can drive themselves. I found myself using the same patient tone I used when explaining new technology to my dad. He told me about his daughter in her 20s, and I couldn’t help thinking it made more sense for me to hang out with her instead.

The most disturbing thing about Miguel wasn’t his octogenarian manner. He undressed me with a constant twinkle in his eyes that made me feel like he wanted to wear my skin for his birthday outfit. He probably would’ve handed me lotion in a basket to ensure I was properly conditioned to make the best suit. My skin crawled like I had thousands of insects roaming across my body. Flight response was on high alert. I wanted to bolt, but it was a really long sprint down A1A back to my place. Sitting at the swanky, beachside sushi restaurant, I realized I had no way out. I was hungry, and the menu looked good.

“I’ll have a glass of Sancerre, please.” I smiled at the waiter.

“Should we get a bottle?” Miguel asked.

“Do you like Sancerre?” 

“I’ve never had it, but let’s have a bottle.” He turned to the waiter. “A bottle, please.” 

That’s weird. Who orders a bottle of something they’ve never had? Once Miguel ordered the chef’s tasting menu, priced at hundreds of dollars per person, I figured out his strategy. Fuck. He’s trying to flex by going all out on this dinner. 

“So, have you heard from Jake lately?” he asked. 

“No… we’re not friends anymore.”

“Well, I’m happy you two don’t speak anymore.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I couldn’t tell what was going on between you two. I was so relieved when he told me you never slept with him.’

“How was that any of your business?” I scoffed. There’s something wrong with this man. The desire to flee grew by the second. I contracted inward, leaning as far to my right as possible to get more space between Miguel on my left and me. I crossed one arm protectively over my body and rested my chin in the other hand. Equally oblivious to personal boundaries as he was to body language, Miguel reached over my left forearm to hold my hand. 

“I know I told you before.” His thumb gently rubbed the back of my hand, making my entire body tense. “You have the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen.” 

Gross. “Okay.” 

“Are you a witch?” He tried his hand at a playful smirk. I guess flirting? 

“Not that I’m aware of. Do you care if I eat that last bite of tuna sticky rice?” 

“No! Please, do. I want you to have everything you want.” 

Double barf. I  had to keep my hands occupied, shoveling food or wine to my face to keep them safe from his grasp. My skirt was feeling tighter from the food baby growing in my belly. I kept eating and hoped the fact I was eating enough for two would be a turn-off for Miguel.

“I love watching you eat.” He smiled at me. 

Ugggh. Being home alone in baggy sweats, eating Chinese takeout, and watching Netflix wasn’t sounding so bad anymore. I considered chewing with my mouth open but couldn’t bring myself to stoop to that level. 

By the time the bill came, I was bloated, drunk, and ready to go home. Waiting for the valet to bring the car around, both hands clutched my purse like it was a magical object, casting a protective shield around me to keep me out of Miguel’s grasp. I stubbornly studied a palm tree to avoid facing him. Then, what sounded like a car pulling up caught my attention.

I turned, and Miguel’s face collided with mine. He wrapped an arm around my back, so I was stuck. My purse, which had kept my hands safe from his, now felt like handcuffs. There was no room to push him away as Grandpa Justin Long tried to play tonsil hockey with me. Turtling my head into my neck was the only evasive maneuver available. The kiss was terrible, but his texts the next day were even worse.

After waxing poetic about how he felt about me, he demanded to know how he made me feel. I replied:

You make me nervous. We had one dinner together and you’re talking about babies. That’s weird. 

If you want babies, I’ll pump them into you every day and twice on Sundays.

“Oh, fuck no.” I almost threw my phone across the room. 

Using a new guy to forget about another dude could leave you worse off than when you started. That night I did yoga, journaled and went to bed well before last call. The following day, with a clear head, I realized something very important: Sometimes, what a princess needs most is to spend some time in her tower… alone.