If you know me at all, you know I'm a Gold Certified Member of the Lonely Hearts Club (no, it's not a real thing, but it should be).
I don't date. I don't go near guys. I don't look at guys (well, sometimes). Basically, I have no intention of dating anyone or sleeping with anyone anytime soon.
Back in 2016, after being out of the dating game for sooooo long (three years to be exact), I decided to download Tinder. It could be fun, eh? What's the harm? All I wanted was ONE date to help my self esteem -- have someone buy me lunch, dinner, whatever. Maybe a kiss. That's all I wanted, honestly.
The Tinder thing was easy -- mindlessly flirting with strangers as I sat with a face mask on and a bowl of tortilla chips in my lap, telling them what I was 'really wearing.' ("A black lacy bra and thong to match!" Sure.) Cringe-y but true.
Unfortunately, there was a long string of guys I could never quite get to the meeting stage with -- on the day of the "date," something would always come up. Whatever.
I did eventually decide to go on a date with someone. I'll admit, he wasn't my first choice, but beggars can't be choosers and I wasn't having much luck.
The date was normal. We met in his hometown and went out for food and drinks. And then, well, we went back to his place.
Things got a little heated that night and we decided to slow it down (this was a first date, after all), and the guy fell asleep.
I was wide awake, half-naked in his bed, just thinking, "Well, I can't stay here!" It was 1 am, he was snoring his head off and all I could do was obsess over how I had work in the morning.
So I decided to climb out of his bed. You can just go ahead and call me Tom Cruise because this was like "Mission Impossible," and I was some sort of naked ninja picking up pieces of clothing tossed around the room in a moment of drunken passion earlier. I even managed to find my thong!
I gathered my things in full stealth mode and ran straight for the front door. But then, disaster struck. It was locked, and the keys were in his room.
I ran upstairs, where some doors opened out to the garden from the lounge. "Do I make a jump for it?" I thought desperately. I toggled the doors, but they were locked, too. Eh, it was probably not a great idea, anyway.
Then I ran to the kitchen. Behind the sink and behind masses of pots and pans, I could spot a way out: a teeny window.
I leaned over the pots, fully prepared to wiggle out, before accidentally clanging the pots together loudly. Hearing someone approach, I put on my best sheepish face and prepared for the worst.
Luckily, it was his flatmate who emerged, half-asleep. I manage to keep it together enough to politely ask him to let me out, which he quietly did.
I ran as fast I could down the street in a skimpy denim dress before hailing a cab to head home.
The strangest part of the story? There was actually a second date.