The Good, The Bad, and the Kenny Chesney

So B and I were talking the other day about dating. We were pontificating on whether it is better to have one or two really serious, long-term relationships (her situation) or have lots of really bad dates/boyfriends before finding the right man (my situation).

There is the argument that going on some really bad first dates could give you a little bit more appreciation for the good guys when they come along (you know, during an eclipse of the moon at the vernal equinox is I believe the frequency).

And so I decided to share with her my number one all-time worst blind date. And I've had a lot, it was liking picking the worst song on a Nick Lachey CD. They are all so bad.

I was living in Phoenix with my sister, and my co-worker Jenna said she just had to set me up with her best friend. I wasn't really looking to be set up, but I'm as curious as a kitty cat and said yes. Jenna was really cute and funny, so I figured her best friend had to be just as fabulous as she. So on a Friday after work I get dressed up and drive over to this guys house to meet (lets call him) Josh*, Jenna, and Jenna's fiance. I pull up and yes, I'm immediately (shallowly) impressed with his house. Well, the exterior that is. As soon as I walk in, I notice there is definitely a country-western motif (I think the mounted deer head and denim sofa gave it away) and a Kenny Chesney concert DVD being played on the big screen TV. Bleh. Men who listen to Kenny Chesney are inferior life forms, as far as I'm concerned. Kenny was made for female fans, and female fans only.

Then Josh shakes my hand, we say hello, and I notice he's wearing exactly what Kenny Chesney is wearing in this concert DVD. Baseball cap with a severely shaped rim, puka-shell necklace, tight t-shirt**, jeans. And he reeks like he bathed in cologne, heck, he was completely pickled in Aqua di Gio.

So I await the ice-breaking conversation, and weigh the believability of telling him my IBS had flaired up and I should leave. His ice breaker? "Hey, do you like Kenny Chesney?" And because I'm a huge asshole I, of course, say, "Absolutely not," complete with eye roll. Am nicest lady ever.

Awkward silence. I go in search of Jenna. I tell her I should probably go. She makes me feel bad for being so shallow, and I decide to stay. I don't know why. If anything is a dealbreaker for me, it's most definitely Kenny Chesney idolization.

We head to the bar, Jenna and her fiance in the front seat, me and Josh in the back. He obviously wants me to sit in the middle, and I'm practically hugging the door. He keeps moving over, and by the time we get to the bar he's sitting in the middle and I'm smashed against the window. There is nothing sexier than a man riding bitch in the back of a Pontiac Sunfire.

Once there Josh offers to buy me a drink. I let him, because I might as well get a free drink out of this trainwreck. There is some music playing at the bar, and he wants me to dance with him. I politely decline. He then says to me, "How many drinks do I have to buy you before you'll dance with me." In his teeny-tiny brain, which clearly isn't working correctly, probably from Aqua di Gio poisoning, he is thinking that all girls are more fun when they are drunk. And I just can't perpetuate that stereotype... even if it may be true... sometimes... in my case. But pfft, whatever, he totally doesn't know that about me and HOW DARE HE ASSUME.

I fake a phone call where my sister tells me that there is an emergency (first and only time I've ever done this, please stay away from me bad karma) and leave. It practically ruined my relationship with Jenna. I honestly thought she must have some sort of mental problem to claim this, this... dude as her best friend. Maybe her frontal lobe was injured in a tragic sledding accident, and she doesn't like to talk about it. Who knows. We aren't friends anymore. I hope she stays away from sleds in the future.

So bad dates like this definitely make me appreciate my current relationship even more. Luckily my lovely Schuyler doesn't even know who Kenny Chesney is, only wears cologne one spritz at a time, and doesn't own a single corny t-shirt. He also doesn't ask me how many beers he has to buy me to get me to dance... and for the record, it's 2 beers to dance, 4 beers to dance and sing ridiculously, and 6 beers to break out the moon walk. And he hasn't dumped me for it yet.

*I can't even remember the guys name. I blame post-traumatic stress disorder.
** His shirt said, "I smile because I don't know what's going on."