In 5 Reasons Why Dying Alone Is Probably Better Than Going on This Date, we ask anonymous Washingtonians to chronicle their tragic attempts at romance in the city. On Fridays, we put it on the internet. This week:
- Does: Nonprofit, 25
- Lives: NW D.C.
- Is: Male
- Relationship history, in one word: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
On a date with:
- Does: Nurse, 23
- Is: Female
So how did you meet her?
Tinder. I would say *groan* but incidentally, I met my soon-to-be fiancée on the same platform not too long after this Dumpster fire of a date.
Where did you go?
We exchanged a couple words through the app, and she gave me her number after I asked if she was free for a drink sometime that week. We arranged to meet at a spot off U Street where a buddy of mine used to tend bar. At the time, she was living in Southeast near Anacostia and I was living in Alexandria, so I figured if I hopped on Yellow, neither of us would have to switch lines on the Metro. She joked that my bio was accurate. (It was “Polite. Professional. Has a plan.”)
What are the five reasons dying alone is probably better than going on this date?
- When I was on the Metro, she sent me a text saying she’d be a little late, which is totally understandable, especially if you’re using public transit. When she arrived, she was visibly upset and launched into a full-blown apology. I didn’t get it: She was courteous enough to tell me she’d be late without leaving me to wonder if she was standing me up, right? You’d have thought she ran over my dog with her car or something. Minor detail, but it set kind of a weird mood.
- Immediately afterward, she proceeded to tell me exactly why she was late: She “had to pick up some UTI cream because it’s like murder down there today.” I’m pretty much as filter-less as they come—and for what it’s worth, the UTI thing wouldn’t have scared me off if it was, like, a second or third date or something—but even I have some limits of what not to divulge within five minutes of meeting a new person.
- About halfway through the date, she reached into my glass of water and grabbed some ice cubes with her fingers and started chewing on them. Again, not a problem if she’d have used a spoon (and maybe asked first), but I couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not she found a bathroom to duck into between CVS and the bar, or did it discreetly in public, or if she’d washed her hands after applying the cream… you never know.
- She stayed pretty steady texting and checking her phone during the hour and a half we were there. I wasn’t a dick about it, but it did bug me a little.
- Despite the points above, it actually wasn’t an awful date, so I left the lines of communication open and walked her back to the Metro, but in the end she ghosted me.
Want to be featured in our search for DC’s worst date? Introduce yourself in an email to eplott@washingtonian.com.
Elaina Plott joined Washingtonian in June 2016 as a staff writer. She has written about her past life as an Ann Coulter fangirl, how the Obamas changed Washington, and the rise and fall of Roll Call. She previously covered Congress for National Review. Her writing has appeared in the New York Observer, GQ, and Harper’s Bazaar.
