Drunk Dates and Cheese Wedges

A tale of dating mistakes for Valentine's Day

As if this day can't get any worse, they went and threw it on a damn Monday.

Anyway, I'd like to take you back in time to 2011 or so, when I was single and thriving in my late twenties. I'm only somewhat joking when I say thriving, because really being single in your twenties has so many perks. You can stay out past 11 pm, you can be hungover and still function the next day, and you just have a lot less wear and tear on your heart. This thing has got some serious mileage on it now, so I don't have time for bullshit. In my twenties, I absolutely adored bullshit.

The below is a story of a prime example of said bullshit. At the time, I remember being annoyed, insulted, and experiencing an influx of feelings that I didn't even want. When they say you date to figure out what you like and don't like, I learned that I don’t like wine without food. But I learned a little more than that. Read on…

I was on OkCupid at the time, back when it was an actual website, because apps weren't really much of a thing yet. I was 27, and I matched with some guy who looked relatively cute and seemed normal (how easily they can fool us though), and we agreed to meet at The Immigrant, a cozy wine bar in the East Village. And yes, cozy is a New York real estate term for “small.”

He was waiting outside for me - tall, blonde hair, cute, but a little thin for me. My number one rule is if the guy can pull off skinny jeans better than you can, that’s a problem. But whatever, I told myself not to be picky. After all, I live in Williamsburg and did back then too. I had to get used to it.

As I approached him I thought...overall, handsome! Good start. I'll be honest, at present day, I do not remember his name and could not pick him out of a lineup, but I DO remember thinking that he was cute.

As we sat down and looked over the menu, I remember scolding myself for not eating a snack prior. The menu consisted of basically olives. Two things that don’t mix with me? Wine and an empty stomach. I get brutal headaches.

I made a comment about being a little hungry and how we might need to get food at some point. This was also before I discovered that the first date should be like a comedy show: 2 drink minimum. It’s enough to get you feeling good without being sloppy, and anything past that is at your own risk. But back then, when I had patience for people and bullshit, I usually ate dinner on dates.

“Oh, I don’t usually eat on dates,” he said with a smirk.

“Why??” I asked, looking horrified.

“Well, if I’m being honest…”

*that’s never good to hear* I think to myself.

“I usually date models.”

I laugh immediately. “Ah, of course,” I say as if that wasn’t the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard, “so what exactly are you doing here with me then?”

“Well, you have a pretty face.”

Me, in my head:

was that his way of saying I’m not skinny enough to be a model but my face is model-esque? What the fuck kind of ass backwards compliment is that? Is it even a compliment? No, that’s definitely an insult. What a prick. Maybe he meant it to be flattering? No, stop making excuses for him, he could apologize if he wanted to. But is there anything to apologize for? Should he have to apologize to me for his life choices? No, he shouldn’t. If he wants to date models that’s on him. But why even say it? It’s fine. Forget it. I’m over it.

Me, outwardly to him, and definitely not over it: “oh well, thanks, I think?”

Let’s fast forward to the end of the date because I don’t remember 95% of it. Why? Because we had THREE BOTTLES OF WINE AND NO FOOD.

Allow me to be clear in that I could never have 3 bottles between 2 people now without getting violently ill. Bless your twenties, for real.

But I digress. I quite literally don’t remember how I got home, but I did. I woke up the next morning with a headache so strong it could probably pick up internet. I stumbled out into my living room and just look around at the disaster.

“Oh, what the fuck?” I said out loud as I scanned the room.

I used to do this very fun thing when I was really drunk: I’d basically start stripping the second I walked in the door and throw my clothes all over the apartment.

So. After a very blurry, booze-infused evening with this dude, I woke up to find my jeans in the sink, my bra on my dining room table, and…wedges of cheese ALL OVER my apartment with bite marks in them.

Gouda on the coffee table, Swiss on the stove, even a nutty Manchego on the nightstand. Upon further review, some of them were barely unwrapped, so after much hungover deliberation, it became clear that not only did I blackout on this date, I also probably ingested plastic.

The best part of all this? That douche asked me out for a second date and I said yes. Why? Because outside of the model comment and not feeding me, I thought it was unfair to judge someone you barely remember. Future Dara would learn that this was a stupid idea, and I 100% should have ended it after that first date. If you want to know why, perhaps I’ll write a part two.

Hope this put your Valentine’s Day into perspective a little. And I also hope you have cheese today.