There will be several points in this story where you might say, “but why did you go in the first place” and maybe question my sense of judgment and to that I’ll just say this, a disclaimer:
This date happened upon the return of a slutty trip to Mexico, my body was back in New York but my sluttiness was still on Mexico time and, TBH, I really wanted to make out with someone that night.
Anyway, it starts, as most dates do these days, with a dating app and a right swipe.
I had been talking to this boy, we’ll call him Tom, for a while and even tried to see each other once before those plans fell through.
But when I got back, literally the day after I got back from Mexico I was ready to give it another shot. I sent a text. We texted. It was normal. Normal didn’t last. It got weird. He said (these are his exact words):
“Wanna get juiced tonight?”
This was Red Flag One.
I’m not young and hip. I mean I’m young-ish but definitely not hip. I thought, “Oh, another slang expression I don’t know” but he was cute so I agreed to get juiced without fully knowing what it meant. I thought he must’ve meant “get a drink”, but I did some research.
On Urban Dictionary there are 12 definitions of “juiced” before anything related to alcohol comes up. The 12 preceding definitions involve steroids, getting beaten up, and lewd acts of a sexual nature.
I mean…we can call the Urban Dictionary results Red Flag Two.
Red Flag Three was that he asked me to meet him at a Backgammon Club. Backgammon: Chess’ less attractive cousin who spent a semester of college abroad and came back weird.
And yet she persisted. She being me. I went to the backgammon club.
Red Flag Four was that the backgammon club was closed and I waited outside alone for ten minutes before my then definitely potential murderer showed up.
And Red Flag FIVE was that the boy showed up with literal JUICE. Like green juice. Like kale and carrots blended in a blender. Like the type of juice you drink right when you start to feel like you’re about to get a cold. Or when you’re constipated.
Writing this is really making me question my own sense of dignity because I agreed to sit with him on a park bench and drink this juice at what was now 11 pm on a Monday night.
Red Flag Six was that we were the only ones out in this neighborhood except for one older man playing a recorder. Yes, like the instrument you learned to play Hot Cross Buns on in 4th grade music class.
(that’s more of an omen then a red flag, still a sign I should have gotten out of that situation) (I can’t believe I’m alive right now)
Red Flag Seven was that he talked so much I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, so every time I tried to say “it’s getting late, I should go” I was interrupted.
For all who think at this point that I would never make out with him after all these red flags:
I still made out with him 😉
I mean it wasn’t good. But it happened.
Of course, this dates ends with a grand finale, a red flag that really sealed the deal on a second date never happening in his or my lifetime.
Red Flag Eight:
I pulled away because I was really ready to get out of there (and didn’t want to stick around for when he decided to murder me), and he GRABBED MY ARM.
AND HE SAID:
“I trust you”
And it was at Red Flag Eight that I finally decided to run away. Bye Tom. The end of our romance.
In conclusion: I don’t know why I date ever and please don’t tell my mom about this.
By Charlotte Barnett
Charlotte Barnett is a New York based writer and soon-to-be-in-debt student at Columbia University. In her free time she enjoys eating rice and shopping for Gucci T-shirts. After spending the last 20 years of her life as a ballet dancer, you could say she’s a pro at balancing anything life throws at her. For information regarding any of the five restraining orders filed against her, please contact Toby Maguire’s lawyers