Category: Single Ladies

There are two things that you dread checking the morning after a big night of drinking – your bank account statement and your outgoing messages. Of all the experiences quarantine has robbed us of, the anxiety associated with that morning after audit is among those that I’ve missed the least.

On the surface, it would seem that over-spending and ill-advised texts have become a thing of the past, but in reality they’ve just evolved to reflect the times. Budgets are likely being broken by Amazon instead of alcohol. And desperate texts are driven less by intoxication, and more by isolation – the “U up” text has morphed into “How are you holding up?”

My longest relationship lasted about two and a half years, with the years preceding that including an oft-complicated back and forth. We’d gotten all of the drunk text reunions out of our system long before the break-up, and as a result our post-relationship communication was now relegated to annual birthday texts.

In the two summers that have followed our breakup, I’ve grappled with sending those two words – “Happy birthday!” The first birthday text held the most significance, like an electric olive branch of sorts. But even the birthdays that followed held their own weight. Was each text just perpetuating the expectation that the other person had to follow suit in order to avoid seeming petty? And how long could this pattern last as our sole communication?

As the threat of Coronavirus ratcheted up, so did the desperation of singles everywhere – a trend that largely manifested itself in the form of unexpected communication from past partners. The texts were largely altruistic in tone, but the subtext often had a motive behind them, even if that motive was only a desire for quarantine companionship. After hearing countless stories of long forgotten exes and straight-up fuckboys sliding back in, the irrational side of me couldn’t help but feel bitter that ten plus years of history didn’t warrant so much as a “Hope you’re doing well.”

But after giving it additional thought, my perspective changed. If we could make it through a global pandemic, nation-wide civil unrest, and even regional murder hornets without a single text, we could certainly make it through another birthday without one.

Sometimes we’re left wondering why things don’t work out with a partner – confused about why things didn’t go anywhere. Then there are other times when the reason is painfully clear, and you can map out exactly where things started to go downhill. This first date was a perfect example of the latter.

5:00 pm

I arrive at the Chuck E. Cheese in Burbank straight after work on a Friday evening. I am still skeptical about centering a date around a kids’ birthday party chain, even if the majority of my first conversation with the guy taking me out was centered around his three years of employment with them. “At the very worst,” I think, “this will make a fun story.”

5:01 pm

I find my date. An awkward hug and some pleasantries are exchanged as we greet each other and walk towards the entrance.

5:03 pm

We approach the entrance gate and are greeted with a “Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese” that is disappointingly lackluster. The hostess asks if we are there to join a party, and manages to almost successfully hide her surprise when we answer no.

5:04 pm

My date excitedly shows me a coupon he found that gets us a large pizza, two drinks, and 50 tokens for the low price of $29.99, which he hands to the cashier. “So, let’s go half on this?” he suggests after the cashier rings us up. I simply oblige with a tight-lipped smile, pull out my wallet, and shell out $15.

5:10 pm

My date was quick to inform me that contrary to popular belief, CEC does serve beer, but conveniently left out the fact that the selection is limited to Budweiser and Bud Light. I sip the latter as we sit down and begin to make the smallest of small talk. At this point I am cursing myself for going against my better judgment and fully engaging in daily text conversations, as it has apparently caused us to run out of things to talk about after only one week of knowing each other.

5:12 pm

I jump slightly as someone taps me on the shoulder mid-conversation. It’s the mouse – I agree to take a photo with him in an effort to lighten the mood and show off my “fun” side. Turns out pictures with Mr. Cheese are not as endearing when taken with an adult dressed in work clothes.

5:48 pm

In lieu of any meaningful conversation, I have been talking mad smack about my gaming skills over our pizza. In reality, my “skills” are limited to skeeball and air hockey. There is no air hockey table. While I’m hopeful that some physical activity will finally eliminate the awkwardness, I’m also mentally preparing to eat my words.

5:55 pm

We’ve made our way over to the kiddie hoops. My date is oozing with the excitement that only a former athlete who is being reintroduced to their sport can understand. Since there are no arcade games simulating tennis or volleyball at which I can show off MY abilities, my focus must lie on not humiliating myself due to a lack of basketball skills. A surprisingly well-dressed 13-year-old boy comes to fawn over my date’s athletic prowess, and winds up eventually offering some pointers out of pity. “Here,” he says, “ the key is to shoot with only one hand and use the other just to steady it.” His effort to help is endearing, but as it turns out I’m a lost cause.

6:45 pm

In spite of my apparent ineptness at every arcade game but skeeball, we earn a whopping 75 tickets. After making a charitable donation to the little boy who was counting tokens next to us, we are now off to a Downtown Burbank location that serves beer other than Budweiser. In weighing the various nearby sports bars that will be showing the Lakers game, Hooters is brought up as an option. Normally I’d be down, but given the current lack of chemistry between us, heading to a bar where hot girls are going to be shamelessly flirting doesn’t seem like the best idea. Perhaps my first Hooters experience will have to wait.

6:55 pm

Luckily I didn’t have to express these insecurities, as it turns out that the option to use a gift card is more enticing than by Hooters’ hooters. Buffalo Wild Wings it is.

7:02 pm

It is PACKED. We skip waiting for a table and proceed to the bar, where we are fortunate enough to be greeted by two open seats right in the center.

7:21 pm

Damn, I wish I knew more about sports. My above average knowledge of and interest in the Lakers is nowhere near enough to satiate his desire to discuss every other NBA team, the NHL, MLB…

7:35 pm

Enough is enough. While the start of the Lakers game has caused things to pick up a bit, it is not sufficient to make up for how utterly uneventful our date has been so far. I fully consider the possibility that coming across as an alcoholic is worse than coming across as a boring date, but decide to utter the following words anyway- “We should play a drinking game while the Lakers are playing!”

My date not only thinks it’s a great idea, but immediately proposes the first rule: Every time the announcers say “Kobe,” “Bryant,” “24,” or anything else referencing the legendary Black Mamba (including “Black Mamba”) we take a drink. I am mildly alarmed at the idea of drinking this frequently, but brush it aside while assuring myself that I’m fully in control of the volume I choose to imbibe, and accept the rule. Other rules include taking a sip for every three-pointer, two sip for every missed free throw, and three for every airball.

7:42 pm

My date is not only completely non-judgmental about this suggestion, but has been an avid supporter! He’s keeping better track of the drinks than I am.

8:02 pm

I am surprisingly full given the fact that it is only the second quarter. I realize I’ve had about three beers, the first one being an IPA I ordered before the drinking game was initiated. I am slightly less pleased with my decision at this point.

8:18 pm

Significantly less pleased, I excuse myself for a bathroom break with the hopes that emptying my bladder will lessen the overwhelming effect of all the beer I have already consumed. It does not.

8:21 pm

I walk out of the bathroom feeling defeated, and am greeted enthusiastically with the news that I missed seven drinks while I was gone. My stomach hates us both at that moment.

8:35 pm

The Lakers are not even winning, and my stomach isn’t either. I pray that halftime will last long enough for me to do some significant digestion.

8:50 pm

Halftime is NOT long enough.

9:02 pm

At the risk of sounding whiny, I try to subtly and reasonably articulate how full I am getting. This complaint is met with “You’ve been drinking only beer, you should switch to a mixed drink so you don’t get so full.” In my already tipsy state, this sounds like a genius idea. I make a mental note to order a gin and tonic after I finish my current beer.

9:17 pm

First gin and tonic is here and things are looking up. I feel a hand caressing my knee over my dark skinny jeans, and I like it. I scoot a little closer to him, happy that sexual tension has finally taken the place of the unsettling distance that previously existed.

9:31 pm

My date is SO much funnier than he was at the start of the night! At least, he is definitely making me laugh a lot more.

9:50 pm

The anticipation at the bar is high as the Lakers are running out of time to pull ahead victorious. All of a sudden a miracle happens, and Kobe ties the game with a three-pointer just before the buzzer! The entire bar erupts with cheers, and in one magical moment of simultaneous excitement, my date and I turn towards each other and share our first brief, sweet kiss of the night. Oh, how things have turned around.

10:33 pm

In an amazing two-point game that went into double OT, the Lakers have emerged as champions! My date orders us a celebratory shot, which I happily down.

12:30 am

The last two hours have been a blur. I am still happy, but confused and suddenly concerned over my level of intoxication.

12:47 am

After finishing one final beer, my date hands over the gift card to close his tab. The bartender quickly returns with the remaining balance that we owe for drinks.

12:49 am

I quickly scribble some semblance of my signature as the bartender returns my card. It’s suggested that we split the difference for drinks, which seems reasonable. Later, when I emerge from my drunken haze I will realize that I definitely ordered fewer drinks, but in the moment this does not cross my mind.

1:06 am

After leaving Buffalo Wild Wings, the sexual tension finally broke – in the form of a heated, drunken makeout session in the heart of Downtown Burbank, of all places.

2:50 am

Finally, after a passing cop car killed the mood and snapped us back to reality, we part ways. “Text me to let me know when you get home,” he says. “He could have waited for me to get into my cab,” I think, but decide not to dwell on it.

2:52 am

Hm, that’s weird…I can’t seem to find my keys. I curse my Longchamp for being a bottomless pit, and feel around for my phone to shed some light on the situation.

2:53 am

Hmmm, can’t find my phone either…

2:54 am

I am now frantically searching inside my bag, moving every item I crammed inside in preparation for work that morning. My panic has elevated my heartbeat and also miraculously eradicated all of the alcohol from my system. I glance at my wrist for the time and am not only shocked to realize that it’s almost 3, but also that the face of my watch is completely smashed. WHEN THE HELL DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN?? The gravity of the situation is sinking in.

2:56 am

After looking around frantically for a nearby open business I identify a Ralph’s across the street. Unfortunately,  Downtown Burbank, unlike Westwood, has no need for a Ralph’s that stays open for 24 hours. It also has no need for manners. I spend at least one minute knocking insistently as the employee sweeping the front tries to ignore me, until he finally sends a woman who very shortly informs me that they “can’t” let me in to use a phone. I am livid, and begin forming a distinct dislike for Burbank.

3:01 am

After making my way back to the Chuck E. Cheese parking lot I realized that there is a 24 hour CVS at the other end. I make my way over, and am greeted by a confused but slightly friendlier elderly woman who hears me out and offers to call the police station to arrange a pick-up, as if I didn’t already feel like a prostitute after the way that Ralph’s employee treated me. “Well,” I think, “a police escort beats utter abandonment in a foreign area.”

3:10 am

The police arrive surprisingly fast, and I consider the possibility that it’s the same car that drove by earlier. While the two male officers in the car aren’t particularly rude, they are also shockingly unconcerned with how I wound up stranded this late. Soon after I enter the car we’ve arrived at the Burbank police station where I’m informed that someone should be present inside to call me a cab. Cool.

3:15 am

The police station is completely deserted. I begin to fear that I’m going to have to sleep here when a portly middle-aged woman ambles out and asks how she can help me. I explain my situation, and am directed to a phone that will call a cab for me. 

3:45 am

With every passing minute my worry grows significantly. Finally, a vehicle pulls up to the crosswalk on the other side of the street, and I scramble out of the police station with my purse to catch it before it drives away. I am so thankful to finally be en route to my warm bed.

4:15 am

My eyes slowly flutter open as I notice the cab is slowing down and we are on my street. I blink a few times until my eyelids no longer feel like sandpaper. Tonight is quickly becoming quite the expensive date experience, and for what? I pull out my card, sign for $75, and wish the cabbie a “good night/morning.”

4:16 am

Of course my roommate’s car is gone already. I knew she was going snowboarding this weekend, but figured she wouldn’t be leaving until 7 or so. I tell myself that my landlord’s son MUST be home, as not one but two cars are parked in his spot.

4:17 am

I give a few tentative knocks and listen intently, but receive no response. In a bold move I gingerly turn the door handle and realize it’s unlocked! What are the odds? But…is breaking and entering then ambushing my landlord’s son, whom I’ve met only once, really my best option? Probably not. I quietly pull the door back in.

4:19 am

I look at my downstairs neighbor’s apartment apprehensively. At this point she’s pretty much my last resort, as I have never conversed with the neighbors in the fourth unit. With bated breath, I reach out to ring the doorbell.

After four hours on my neighbor’s couch, I finally get back in contact with my landlord’s son and got a key to my apartment. After finding a ride to Burbank, tracking down the stranger who had picked up my phone, and spending $250 to get a new car key made, the shenanigans finally ended.

Shocking revelation – we never saw each other again. While this date was likely doomed from the moment we agreed to meet at Chuck E. Cheese, it truly took a turn at 7:35, the moment I suggested playing a drinking game in an effort to force a connection. The main takeaways of the date were no longer his lack of chivalry, or insistence on talking about sports incessantly – those follies had now been overshadowed by the fact that both me and my watch face got completely smashed.