The day following The Mindy Project’s new season premiere, I of course recapped it with a few of my friends via G-chat. One friend, sent me this Vulture article titled “19 Mindy Project Dates, Rated on A Disaster Scale,” and said, “at least your dates aren’t as bad as these”. To that I have to agree, very much so, but I’ve had a handful of dates that can be rated on said “Disaster Scale”. Shall we review? For all intents and purposes, we will not be identifying any guys here nor will we a “when” timeline to protect the identities of said bad dates.
DISCLAIMER: The below are all very, painfully true. Have pity.
The set up: A and I dated on and off, ever since I’d moved to NYC and attended NYU – about a 2.5 year span, or so.
Things fell apart when: We decided to attempt to rekindle a flame over drinks. I asked where, he named a bar which is notorious for its dollar beer nights, extreme bro-iness, but also the B&T crowd (yeah, you know which one). After a painfully awkward beer (Bud Light, of course), he asked to split the bill. I walk out.
Disaster scale: 7 – in the larger scheme of things not bad. Just more of a, I guess that actually happened, type thing.
The set up: B and I dated for a few months a few years ago. Though a five year age difference, B was not as mature as most men would be at that age, see: DJing, shoe collecting, lavish spending habits, general activities.
Things fell apart when: B’s girlfriend and I began to communicate (very cordially, mind you). Naturally things went their ways from there…
Disaster scale: 8, again, not too bad. Was pretty unphased by B so I had made like a raincoat and let it all roll off. I think B’s (ex) girlfriend and I are all the better for it.
The set up: To be honest I don’t know how this one started because I’ve done everything in my power to wipe it from my memory.. Mind you, this was just one date.
Things fell apart when: After a nice first date dinner, C hailed a cab to take me home. While I got into the cab and said my polite thank yous (very polite as I had no intention of seeing C again), C slipped an envelope into my purse. A few blocks into the cab ride I open said envelope to find $1000. Wide-eyed I called C and told him frankly I was not planning to see him again and could I meet him somewhere to give him his money back because I couldn’t accept it. His response: “No, keep it. That was for your time”. Not one to turn down free money, the next day I hastily deposited into my savings account (as a responsible 20 year old, at the time does).
Disaster scale: 10 – this was bad. Slightly humiliating but I walked away enriched by the experience (see what I did there?)
The set up: After a long night of bar hopping and self-loathing, my friends and I find ourselves at a “lovely” dive bar. We start talking to a bunch of Harvard alumns coming back from a networking session. One is wearing a seersucker suit. Immediately I see this as a great silver lining to a bad night.
Things fell apart when: After far too many Rolling Rocks / PBRs, said man in seersucker suit passes out on me. Physically. I take myself and dignity home (only a few blocks thankfully) at 5am.
Disaster scale: 5 definitely more humorous for me. I even had a nice laugh with the morning workers and delivery men opening up shop in the East Village whom I passed. NYC is magical at 5am.
The set up: E and I had been seeing each other for a significant amount of time.
Things fall apart when: We are at a super divey bar (I’m a dive bar fan, but this is super divey – pirate looking characters, toothless men, and all). E says the three words that every woman either longs to hear from a man she has been seeing for some time, or immediately gets sick from having heard the three words while leaned against a pinball machine, prior to battling for bar space with a man in a wheelchair.
Disaster scale: 5 obviously not reciprocated, things turn south. I couldn’t get out of that bar fast enough – however, the sticky floors prevented me from running.
The set up: F and I had been on a few dates. F does not like to see me inebriated much, which was probably a red flag in the beginning because how would that ever work out. We are at a house party in Greenpoint Brooklyn and I am content listening to music with my Budlight Beer-garita.
Things fall apart when: F goes on a tirade and takes my neon pink colored tall boy beergarita away from me and dumps it down a sink (I was only a few sips in). Obviously angry, I storm away and enjoy the party drink-less. He persists to throw me in a cab to take me home, alone and has a fit about how I am “SO DRUNK AND NEED TO CONTROL MYSELF” – which is funny and ironic because at the moment I am absolutely composed and listening to a maniac yelling emphatically in the middle of a street in Brooklyn, causing party-goers to come outside. I get home safely and the next morning, delete F’s number.
Disaster scale: 10. Guys, never take away a girls drink. If a girl is out of hand (which to be honest, was not the case here), be polite about it and be a gentleman and don’t simply shove her in a cab and expect her to call you the next morning, let alone return your persistent calls for the following three weeks.
I don’t remember anything about this man, or what had happened – not because I was drunk, but only because he was simply a blip on my radar that obviously was forgotten. I only know because a friend recently reminded me of it.
Things fall apart when: After 2nd or 3rd date, G high fives me. I get it.
Disaster scale: 0 I obviously have no qualms nor do I have regrets nor do I care much about what had transpired. Shit happens.
The set up: H and I went on like two or three dates when he invited me to go to the beach with him. I agree. I meet him with a short, summery dress and flip flops.
Things fall apart when: H arrives on his motorcycle. Despite it being 80+ degrees and in the middle of Summer he is dressed in jeans and leather – as is his motorcycle attire, you know, incase you fall off and have to slide across pavement. I picture this briefly and think about how unprepared I am (and the fact that I have never been on a motrocycle). To top it off, he informs me will be taking the motorcycle all the way to Coney Island. Reluctantly, in the most lady like fashion, I hike myself onto the back of his motorcycle and endure the godawful ride. Things don’t get better when I realize I am stuck in Coney Island with a man I don’t care for (and who clearly does not care for my safety – but he DID give me a helmet at least).
Disaster scale: 7 I am a grouch during the Summer. I hate the heat and humidity and typically the beach makes it better… just not Coney Island which is rife with tourists and weirdos and freaks. Also, did I mention I was stuck with a weirdo of my own? We eat Nathans hot dogs later which immediately make me sick. So that was a great ride home.
The set up: J and I went on one date. I was just so-so on him but figured, as per usual I’d keep my option open because why not.
Things fall apart when: J begins to be incessant about requesting photos of my feet and my hands. Incessant turns to aggressive and I realize he has a foot fetish (but also “you have really pretty hands”). This is obviously weird for me.
Disaster scale: 4. Like I said, it was one date (pretty sure I was wearing closed toed shoes so idk how the feet came up, but it was YEARS ago), so it was an easy out to stop communicating.