The Beginning: My Search for Mr. Right (And All the Mr. Wrongs on the Way)

The closest I’ve ever come to finding Prince Charming was in eighth grade, when I was cast as Cinderella in what I thought was the middle school drama production of the century. I, after all, was chosen to dance the three-step and stare into the eyes of the eighth grade class heartthrob, David Kennerly. And when the Drama teacher contemplated the addition of a kissing scene at the end, I reeled with an excitement I had never before thought possible. At fourteen years old, my love life was looking pretty good. Until I came down with laryngitis three days before the performance, the kiss was called off and David stood as far away from me as humanly possible for fear that I would sneeze on him and he, too, would have to miss the class trip to Waterworld the following week. It was over. In fact, I knew it was really over (as if there was any ambiguity) when I saw him locking lips with someone else during intermission. It was essentially the beginning of the end, a precursor to years and years of Dating Hell that have somehow come to define my life. Prince Charming eluded me then and he eludes me now. 

I have the worst dating luck of any human being who has ever walked on this planet. I, of course, am inclined to attribute this to the fact that I was born on Friday the 13th -- an inescapable reality, albeit a superstitious one, that makes me hesitant to hope for any long-term romantic success. I’ve been on hundreds of dates, met thousands of men and been presented with countless opportunities for free dinners, “movie” nights and long-term relationships. But there’s one problem (and unfortunately it’s a pretty daunting one): I only attract the freaks. Think -- just for a minute -- about the most awkward and socially inept person you’ve ever met in your life. And then multiply that by two thousand. And then add in other things -- like mental derangement, pedophilic backgrounds, stalker-like tendencies -- and only then have you even begun to scratch the surface. You can throw in other things, too -- you know, more benign and less life-threatening qualities -- and then you’ll start to paint a more complete picture of my dating-gone-wrong past. The ones who are so dull you wonder how long it’s been since the lobotomy. Or so short they barely reach your shoulders. And you can’t leave out the ones who throw rocks at your window because, after all, your Facebook profile does say you are a hopeless romantic. 

It’s true: unless a man has the personality of my Brita filter, suffers severe mental instability, is over 65 years old, under five feet tall or a blatant and unabashed stalker, I am skeptical, at best, when they ask me out. Because without fail, some creepy combination of those qualities presents itself -- usually within the first ten miserable minutes of Date One -- and I’m instantaneously reminded of why I vow to give up on dating every time I go out with someone new. And right when I decided to throw in the towel on this seemingly futile endeavor forever, my friend Jessica had a brilliant suggestion: a blog. I, after all, suffer from a string of dating experiences so unusually hilarious that even the Mona Lisa would crack a laugh. Why not share them with the world and make everyone else just a little more thankful for their own comparatively normal love lives? To my readers, I am telling you now that my stories challenge all realms of credulity; they require no additional comedic flair because they are both hilarious and unbelievable on their own. At 24 years old, I have an endless arsenal of stories from which to draw upon -- stories that give names to TV shows like “Beauty and the Geek” and “How to Catch a Predator.” After all, if there is a freak out there, I can assure you that our paths will inevitably cross.  So --since I recently got out of a serious relationship -- I've finally decided to take Jessica’s suggestion and start a blog I should’ve begun long, long ago. 

I can’t remember when I first noticed the giant “If you are a freak, please ask me out” magnet that rests on my forehead with the permanence of an unwelcome birthmark. I think it was in kindergarten, when, during dodge ball, the vociferous class clown pulled down my pants (yes, Beauty and the Beast underwear included) in front of everyone -- only to later inform me that it was his way of telling me he liked me. Well, if sheer mortification isn’t the way to someone’s heart, then I don’t know what is. It could’ve been in second grade, when Chris Baker grabbed my hands and threw me off the monkey bars in front of every single student at Thomas Jefferson Elementary School. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the nurse’s office -- you know, after my humiliating brush-with-death ten-foot fall -- that Chris told me he did it just because he wanted to hold my hand. (Chris, I imagine, is now most likely a case study in one of those bestselling books on Women's Studies and Domestic Violence.) Or maybe it was in fifth grade, when Dale Goody stole his mother’s diamond ring from her jewelry box and proposed to me on the Four Square court during P.E. class. He even went so far as to pull some weeds out of the flower box in front of the classroom in order to enhance the “mood.” And although I declined Dale’s romantic proposal during our heated game of Four Square on that sunny afternoon, I often wonder if I made the wrong choice. Out of all the Mr. Wrongs I’ve met since, who knows, Dale Goody just may have been my one and only Mr. Right.

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Note: I have used pseudonyms so as to preserve the anonymity of everyone mentioned.

Additional note: This blog has not been created for the purpose of impugning anyone's character. Most of these guys are actually very nice. I'm just trying to find some humor in a series of some pretty hilarious dating nightmares!