At my family reunion a few weeks ago, a number of the cousins sat around swapping dating stories, which quickly dissolved into “tell us about the worst date you’ve ever had.” It was awesome. When my cousin Emily told us about her 6+ foot, 250 pound date who leaped around the living room, over the couches, and under the piano on his hands and feet (NOT hands and knees) imitating Gollum, we were all in absolute stitches.
I haven’t had a lot of bad dates, fortunately. But I do have one crowd pleaser story, which I pull out on occasion.
During my freshman year at BYU, I went on a few dates with this guy who was also from Las Vegas. We’d had a good time together, and I suspected he was at least marginally interested in me and I was definitely somewhat interested in him (despite having a sort-of boyfriend, but, you know, I was 18 and I didn’t care).
One week, after several dates, he called me up and asked if I wanted to go shooting with him on Saturday morning. I said yes, despite never having shot a gun in my life (that I can remember).
Saturday morning came and he came to pick me at my building. I was waiting in the lobby; he came in and then we walked out to his truck together.
Imagine my surprise when I got into the truck and he said, “This is Jenny, this is Lauren, this is Becca and this is Sidney.”
Yes, there were four other girls in the car. Four!
On our way out to the middle of nowhere, where we could shoot in safety, he stopped to fill up with gas. While he was out of the car, one of the girls said, “So, did any of you know that you weren’t going to be the only one here?” And what do you know; every one of us thought we were going to be lone date.
I can’t remember if we ever went out again, but I will never forget the guts of this guy to ask out five girls and never mention to any of them that they’d be only one of five.