In 5 Reasons 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: Researcher, 23
- Lives: Columbia Heights
- Is: Female
- Relationship history, in one word: Helter-skelter
On a date with:
- Does: Lawyer, 27
- Is: Male
So how did you meet him?
The cesspool of mediocrity that is Hinge.
We chatted on the app for about two weeks, about our mutual taste in nerdy movies and books. I didn’t ask him any serious questions before meeting him, such as “Are you a laid-back person?” or “Do you love your parents?”, which may have helped in this situation.
Where did you go?
Room 11, because the only seats open at El Chucho were at the bar. For reasons unknown, this was unacceptable to my date. Strike one.
What are the five reasons dying alone is probably better than going on this date?
1. The number one reason dying alone is better than going on this date is because dying alone means you don’t have to endure the pain that is fragile masculinity.
2. When we got to Room 11, the guy said he had a friend who worked there. He asked our waitress if Rebecca was working tonight, which it turned out she was. The waitress went to grab Rebecca. She shows up and clearly has no idea who this dude is. He says, “Hey! How are you?” She goes, “Fine! How are you?” He’s like, “Great! Just wanted to see if you were working tonight.” She’s like, “Yup!” We’re all feeling awkward at this point, but the guy doesn’t break once. He’s just like, “Really good to see you!” She says, “Yeah, nice to meet you!” Which—awkward. Then she leaves and gets our regular waitress back. I’m still unclear on what this was or why it happened.
3. I was already feeling incredibly awkward. He started guilting me for making *him* uncomfortable. He said if I could just keep eye contact with him and stop looking around the room, he would be way more comfortable. He told me, “Just keep your eyes, right here… You and me…”
4. He then delivered a monologue about how choosing to go to law school was a great avenue away from his home town. He explained that he realized he was smarter than everyone there, including his parents who he said are “laypeople.” I said, “Didn’t they pay for your college? That seems a little harsh.” He said, yes, but they both work blue collar jobs. I asked if there was something wrong with blue collar jobs. Long silence.
5. As we were leaving, he asked how I felt the date went. I turned the question back on him. He said, “It seemed like you were uncomfortable on the date because when we met, you realized you were a few inches taller than me.” I laughed and said that was ridiculous. He said, “Great, well in that case, do you want to go out again?” I said no. After being rejected, this dude asked for a goodnight kiss. Asked. After. That was also, inevitably, a no.
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.
