The animated movie “Gnomeo and Juliet” has been on heavy rotation in my house lately. In case you don’t have a pint-sized cinema connoisseur in your life and are therefore unaware of this fine film, it is obviously an adaptation of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” likely the most famous tale of doomed lovers. In this version, gnomes in the neighboring gardens of Montague and Capulet on Verona Drive are at war, but Gnomeo (a blue Montague gnome) and Juliet (a red Capulet gnome) are in love. Since I have the script memorized at this point, I’ve begun contemplating the age-old tradition of tragic love stories.
Thankfully, the vast majority of us don’t have a story quite as sad as Romeo and Juliet do. Theirs is the gold standard of doomed love – “For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” Even the gnome versions of the “star-cross’d” lovers manage to pull off a happy ending. While it’s hard to beat the fate of Romeo and Juliet in the doomed love department (not that anyone would want to), most of us have had our share of romantic ruin.
My own dating disasters are more comedy than tragedy. As I tick through the most memorable, I can’t help but think of Nanette the garden frog, gnome Juliet’s friend and confidant. When Nanette learns of Juliet’s forbidden love for Gnomeo, she dramatically declares, “Ooooh, doomed love – that’s the BEST kind!” and merrily hops along her way, plucking petals off a flower, singing “Your love is doomed, your love is dead, your love is doomed, your love is dead, doomed, dead, doomed, dead . . . .”
My first boy-induced heartbreak was in kindergarten. Of course it didn’t have anything to do with romantic love. For reasons I cannot recall, I simply thought a skinny boy named Aaron would be a nice friend. He told me I could play with him, but only if I brought him a piece of gum. The insidious kindergarten version of “If you don’t put out, I’ll dump you.” Sadly, it takes many years to learn that a person offering such an ultimatum is not worth spending another second thinking about, much less pursuing a relationship with. At the time Aaron named his friendship price I had a long road of naiveté ahead of me and was facing quite a quandary. I knew that gum was not allowed in our class, but I also desperately wanted Aaron to be my friend. After a lot of fretting, I finally asked my mom for a piece of gum to take to school the next day. “I don’t think you’re supposed to have gum at school,” she replied. “But I need it,” I whined. “Why do you need it?” she inquired, forcing me to explain the situation. Now, my mom must have still had her own fair share of naiveté going on because instead of advising me to tell Aaron to take a long walk off a short pier, she suggested I make him a nice card. Apparently my fondness for creative projects trumped my better judgment because I thought this was a fantastic idea. I promptly got out my art supplies and whipped up a lovely card that featured a daisy on a pink background. I was very proud of it and couldn’t wait to show Aaron that I had gone above and beyond his request for gum. Well, you can probably guess what happened. Recess rolled around and I, beaming with pride, presented my card. Aaron looked at it with an amount of disgust I’m still surprised a five year old could muster, tore it up, threw it on the ground and walked away. Doomed . . .
Third grade brought my next encounter with cupid. It was a great year; my best friend Jennifer and I were in the same class and, as far as we were concerned, the rest of the world might as well not have existed. When we felt the need for any additional posse (which was rarely), we had Matt and Jay, the boy versions of us. The four of us had great fun that year, playing pranks on each other and engaging in good-natured playground battles. Then Matt had to go and ruin everything. His desk was right next to mine and one day, while diligently working on multiplication worksheets, he leaned over and asked me a math-related question. When I turned to reply, he kissed me right on the lips. I was horrified and fumed in silence until recess when Jennifer and I hid in the well of a basement window and discussed the heinous course of events. We decided we could not let such an action go as if nothing had happened. We needed to send a clear message, so there was only one thing to do – we arranged a meeting. Little Matt arrived looking shy and relieved. And then . . . I punched him. Hard. (This particular fiasco not only killed a childhood crush, but also left me with lifelong PTSD when it comes to math.) Dead . . .
Fast forward a couple of decades. At this point I was in my 20’s and surely more adept with romance, right? Wrong. I was still a dating disaster, this time with a different Matt, the one I would ultimately and amazingly, given how our first few dates went, marry. For our first date, we met for lunch. After saying our hellos in the lobby of Matt’s office building, we set off for a restaurant. About halfway to the door, one of my legs inexplicably gave out and I fell. One second I was there and the next second I was on the floor. Mortified, I popped back up and tried my best to shake it off. Still feeling like an idiot, I attempted to exit the building, only to get my purse caught in the revolving door. Doomed? I certainly thought so. In fact, I distinctly remember saying so as I debriefed the date with my friend Amy. “He’ll never call me again,” I declared. Surprisingly, he did call again, which gave me the opportunity to spill martinis into his lap on our second and third dates. Oh yeah, I’m THAT smooth.
Seattle’s now defunct Laundromat/bar Sit & Spin was the site of another early 20’s dating drama. One evening, Amy and I were doing our laundry and having drinks when I saw the guy I had been dating semi-regularly for a month or so. He was across the room at a dryer. When I went over to say “hi” I was greeted with a look of sheer panic. I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I glanced down and noticed lingerie in his load of laundry. A woman peeked over his shoulder and said, “Babe, is my Soundgarden t-shirt in that load?” There was a moment of silence, followed by realization and then fury in her eyes, dread on his face, and an awkward, “Well, uh, OK, um, I guess I’ll see you later,” from me. Amy and I spent the rest of our dry-cycle watching his girlfriend tell him off from afar. Dead . . . .
My early 20s offered several other examples of dates-gone-wrong, including one with Mr. Life Is Pain – the type that hangs out in coffee shops writing bad poetry, chain smoking clove cigarettes and looking moody. Mere moments after we sat down in a painfully hip bar, he whipped out his journal and proceeded to write down everything I said that he thought was interesting or funny. I guess I should have been flattered that he spent the entire date scribbling madly, but it didn’t make for a very entertaining evening. Doomed . . .
My college years were refreshingly dating-drama-free due to the fact that almost every moment I wasn’t studying (which was most of them), was spent in gay dance clubs. I’m sure plenty of dates go wrong in gay clubs, but not when you’re a straight girl who is only there because they play the best dance music.
High school was a different story. Disastrous dates were plentiful in my teen years. One disappointing date was more a victim of circumstance than anybody’s fault. It was my senior year and the scene was our winter formal dance. My boyfriend Loren and I had both been appointed/elected (I have no recollection of how the selection process happened) to the “court”. I was not terribly pleased with this course of events because I didn’t have any desire to be a princess unless the title came with gobs of money and even then, I’m really more tattoos than tiaras. Anyway, Loren and I were having a lovely evening until it came time to crown the King and Queen. First they crowned the King . . . lo and behold it was Loren. Next came the crowning of the Queen . . . drum roll please . . . it was . . . not me. The date was ruined not because I had any desire to be Queen (see above discussion of princesses), but because my date had to spend the rest of the dance getting photographed for the yearbook and the paper and fulfilling all manner of royalty duties. Dead . . .
This brings me to my submission for the award of Most Ridiculously Awful Date Ever. Before I get into details, let me offer a disclaimer: I harbor no ill-will for my date, despite the fact that he behaved like a complete jackass. I think we all deserve a few “get out of jackass free” cards – especially when we’re 16. I must have had particularly bad luck with the winter formal dance because that’s where this date happened too. This time it was my junior year and I spent the day of the big dance getting ready. These were the days before girls paid to have their make-up, hair and nails professionally done. It was the eighties –we did it ourselves and we did it while we walked home from school uphill in the snow. Despite this hardship, I was ready right on time and, after being photographed from all angles by my mom, I carefully sat down on the couch to wait for my date. I say carefully because once you were all gussied up in your formal gown, you couldn’t move a muscle for fear of messing something up. I remember moving my entire torso if I had to move my head, so as not to ruin my awesome ‘80s hair. I had curled and teased and sprayed to perfection so there I sat, stiff as a board, waiting. Ten minutes late . . . no date. Twenty minutes late . . . no date. At 30 minutes late, my stomach started grumbling. I hadn’t eaten much all day in anticipation of our fancy pre-dance dinner and I was starving. Forty-five minutes late and my date finally showed up. He explained that he drank too much the night before and was feeling crappy – too crappy to want to go out for dinner. Doomed. . . . I explained that I was starving and really needed to eat something. My ever-attentive date drove me to a gas station, handed me a couple of bucks and sent me inside to get myself some egg rolls or taquitos out of the hot case. Dead . . .
Most Ridiculously Awful Date Ever
Here we are at the dance. He looks ‘80s cool with the bleached streak in his hair and the bolo tie, but not especially sorry for the greasy gas station food. The thing that strikes me most about this photo is that I look a little out of it. I’m confirming or denying nothing, only saying that you too may have needed chemical altering to cope with a date that bad. My date went to a party after he dropped me off and transitioned seamlessly into a “date” with someone else. We broke up a few days later. Doomed . . .
So there you go – a smattering of my personal tales of bad romance. I really owe Mr. Gas Station Hot Case a thank you for giving me a “worst high school date” story that consistently outdoes all others in its category. I’m sure there is a worse story, but I haven’t heard it (besides “Romeo and Juliet” of course.)
