In the beginning, there were no dates. In my teens, I was a hungry, hungry hippo and it showed. Every day in school involved some fat reference from various films. However, I wasn’t one of those morose fatties, cowering from torment. I tended to outwardly embrace the humiliation and make a joke out of it. I was an Orca amongst whales. Sure, I was part of the largest mammals category, but I had killer style—a Ferrari amongst fatties, so I never gave up on my potential. Regardless of my inflated—yep, it’s a fat joke—sense of self, it’s probably not hard to guess that my dating life was an absolute nightmare.
Then came the long string of horror dates. That string continued until I finally gave up on the process and succumbed to marriage. It is my firm belief that women don’t actually long deep in their hearts for marriage—they simply give up the good fight. For me personally, I had an image of myself as a wildebeest, (yes, there’s a fat joke there as well), fighting through packs of predators. Eventually, the trauma of a hundred hungry lions biting at my throat, a.k.a “the bad date,” forced me to lay down and die, a.k.a “get married.” All joking aside, after about five years of truly horrific experiences, I began to marvel at the quality of lunatics I seemed to attract.
First, there was “Vlad.” In less polite company I like to add the tag “the impaler” after his name—and we’re talking swords of a different kind. He was my first date. I was a junior, seventeen years old, and about 230 pounds. He was a college baseball player and simply divine, or at least divine compared to never having a date … ever. Things didn’t go as planned. I thought we were heading to a movie. Vlad thought otherwise. Five beers and six inches of his tongue later, I thought maybe it was time to call it a night. So, I left … or I tried. He wouldn’t let me. It literally became a physical struggle. At one point, he threw me over his shoulder—truly magnificent strength for a baseball player I might add—and pulled me into his dorm. I clutched at the doorframe and didn’t let go. The bugger actually pulled my shoulder out of whack, but eventually—probably due to his sheer exhaustion at trying to heft my enormous bulk—I won the tug of war. That was one day that I truly felt glad for being fat.
Then there was Drake Skye, male model. He actually asked me out by handing me a card with his picture that stated just that: “Drake Skye-male model.” You may wonder why a nice girl like me would say yes to some putz with that card. Well, it’s like this. I had lost a ton of weight by the time I met Drake, but I still had a ton of insecurity about my looks. I spent a good deal of time accumulating trophy boys to make up for what ugliness I still felt. Unfortunately, during our first contact, he never stood up. It wasn’t until we were out and about that I came face to face with Drake Skye, the Lilliputian. Now I’m 5’10’’ soaking wet and a good six feet with shoes. Drake Skye on the other hand, he wasn’t more than 5’2”. We were a walking freak show. I’d lost weight by then, but there was no hiding my Nordic background, which bequeathed broad shoulders and strong hips. At one point, I felt like I might as well braid my hair, strap on a leather skirt with a bronze bra, and don a horned hat while tucking his little form under my arm and heading to dinner.
Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t entirely about his height. Keep in mind that in my little fantasy above, we were heading to dinner. This is because Drake Skye, male model, didn’t eat.
Let me give you a little insight on why models are not the ultimate date. He who does not eat is destined to have breath tinged with desert carrion. Knowing this, I’m not sure why he suggested we attend the opera. First off, the woman on stage looked suspiciously like the image I had of myself next to Drake Skye, horned hat and all. Second, when one’s breath reeks of a retirement home diaper bin, one should not whisper thoughtful commentary all night long on the merits of opera. And third, although I may resemble some operatic Viking diva, I’m more of a diet-coke chugging, milk duds eating, Independence Day loving sort of simple girl. Between his breath and the opera, I began to fantasize about eliminating several of my sensory organs at once.
When the date ended, (early I might add) Drake Skye was bewildered. “You’re not having fun with Drake Skye? Drake Sky does not get this.” I looked at his tiny, beautiful face and form, then tried to be gentle. But, as in all things, my honesty betrayed me. I replied gently, “It’s not me. It’s you.” Thank goodness he was a model. He nodded with understanding, never really comprehending that someone might not love Drake Skye, male model.
What followed was a series of bizarre experiences. There was the juggler who felt compelled to bring little balls with him everywhere. Then there was the crier, weeping with sensitive aplomb about every mishap of his misbegotten life. Oh, and we can’t forget the guy just out of prison who swore to me from the doorway of his halfway house, that I made him “want to be a better man.” I almost forgot the waiter with a wang the size of my forearm and a lisp that was even bigger. Both were a little overwhelming.
To be fair, I was often the source of horror on dates.
