The Fighting Irish: Part I

I met Joseph MacLaren through family my first year out of college. It was after an Aggie football game, and I was already laid out on my cousin’s futon, face washed and glasses on, throwing myself a pity party about my job—not exactly the first impression I would have chosen.

It seems that I didn’t scare him off completely, because he friended me on Facebook, and we began exchanging messages every so often (clearly, I didn’t learn my lesson last time with Luke), then with increasing regularity. He was cute and Catholic, and I enjoyed the attention. Finally, he asked for my number, and we arranged to go out the next time I was in town.

The move from Facebook messaging to text messaging and phone calls raised a few concerns on my part. The first warning sign came after our first phone call. We were in the process of firming-up plans: he wasn’t going to be sure of his schedule until the following Tuesday—he had gotten a last minute invite to a wedding and wasn’t sure when it was—so I said he should call me then and we’d figure things out. Later, at the end of a textersation, I said that I’d talk to him Tuesday.

Him: What? I can’t call you until next Tuesday?

Me: …I mean, you don’t need my permission to call me before then. If you call and I don’t want to talk to you for whatever reason, I just won’t answer the phone…

Later on the phone, he reprimanded me for using some PG-13 language while talking about TAKS testing.

Sidebar: If you teach in Texas, I guarantee that you use words worse than “damn” and “shit” when talking about state testing.

I was beginning to get the impression that

a) He was way more into me than he should be, but  

b) He also appeared to be into a Disneyfied version of me that didn’t exist in real life.

I’ve no idea where he got this impression from, as I have no filter and haven’t pretended to be anything other than a bubbly, if slightly eccentric loon.  

But still, I pressed on and the weekend of our ill-fated date arrived. He called me as soon as I got into town to check-up on me, which was nice, I guess, but rubbed me the wrong way (I mean, we hadn’t even gone OUT yet—who did he think he was, my dad?), and because, although he knew I was hanging out with my friends that night, he was wondering if I wanted to meet up for drinks later. It was all a little too earnest, and I was looking forward to our actual date less and less.

After talking it over with my friends, I decided that our original plan of a picnic in Research Park was looking like a bad idea (seclusion didn’t seem like me best bet with this one), and so I texted him to say that the mosquitoes were worse than I thought and it got dark sooner than I was thinking (both true), and perhaps we should choose a restaurant instead. He responded that that was fine, and he would surprise me (cue creepy serial killer music).  

I exchanged horrified glances with my friends, and then insisted, no, I really needed to know where we were going so that I could dress appropriately (always a good excuse). He relented and said that he would take me to a little Italian restaurant downtown. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I had a full schedule the next morning and afternoon, so I decided to take a nap before Joseph came to pick me up. While I was asleep, someone came to the door and my cousin answered it. As it was at least an hour before I expected Joseph, I didn’t think anything of it. I got up about forty minutes later and brushed my hair and teeth, and then went to sit on the futon with a book while I waited for him to text me.

Imagine my surprise when he walked in through the back door with my cousin—the wedding had ended early, and so he’d been hanging out at the house with my cousin for the last hour. While I was asleep in the next room.

What followed was probably the worst date I’ve ever been on.

**Stay tuned for Part Two!**