Upon arriving home from work, you immediately text your friends.
"What shall I wear tonight?". You fill the rest of the line with exclamation and question marks to let them know that this is a code red situation. A reply is necessary now, not after they've made a coffee or gone to the supermarket.
You take off your work clothes and feel the unthinkable rubbing against your stockings: Prickly legs. Using your flatmate's razor, you de-fur hard to reach creases and crevices. Your heart sinks as you realise that you don't have a thigh gap. And you have a pimple.
You apply your make-up and resort to wearing your fall-back outfit - the tight, black dress with stockings (for modesty) and flat shoes in case your date is particularly short. You can't remember as you were drunk and/or sitting down when you met him.
You have spent the past few days desperately trying to track down his Facebook page so that you can peruse his tagged photos (you've been stung too many times trusting profile pictures). Not knowing what to expect, you have a quick glass of Sav while you wait for the knock at the door.
It never comes. No, they haven't stood you up, they've texted you to say that they're waiting in their car on the street.
It is raining. Slightly irked, you run outside and ruin thirty minutes of work with your GHD and pray that you're wearing waterproof mascara.
It would all be worth it if they were driving a flashy Mercedes, but you vaguely recognise your date sitting in a 1986 Toyota Hilux. Your heart sinks. This is when you know that you are going on a date with the stereotypical New Zealand man.
You clamber into the passenger seat and sit on a pile of fast food wrappers. Your date does not apologise. A can of DB sits in the drinks holder - you ask to have a sip. Too late. It's already been used as a makeshift ashtray and you get a mouthful of Benson and Hedges with your beer.
On the way to the restaurant, you attempt to make conversation with your date by asking about their job, if they've travelled, where they've lived, etc. They have a one-line response to each and you're running out of material.
You panic, so you raise the topic that never fails to excite the New Zealand man: The All Blacks. The transformation is miraculous. Suddenly, your date awakes from their boredom-induced slumber and will not stop talking. You chip in with the odd bit of SBW gossip, but your date rapidly reminds you that he no longer plays for New Zealand.
The conversation naturally flows into rugby league at this point, and even though you try hard to follow, your knowledge of the Warriors is as bad as his knowledge of My Kitchen Rules.
You check your phone - your best friend. She tells you to wear your loose, red dress with some shape-wear to "tuck that tummy in". Too late. You're already wearing your super tight black number without Spanx pants.
Feeling self conscious, you breathe in, sit up straight and cover your stomach with your handbag.
At the restaurant, you climb out of the ute and notice that your date has not quite put the same amount of effort into his appearance as you have. He is wearing a t-shirt, with the slogan "SIX PACK COMING SOON" on the front, along with some distressed jeans that would barely look passable on Justin Timberlake. Balanced underneath his beer belly, they actually look quite nauseating.
You regret not organising a "get out" plan, but being forward thinking, you realise that you could still get a free meal out of this guy. You decide to keep calm and carry on.
At the table, your date actually gains some brownie points. His insatiable appetite allows you to order exactly what you want without feeling guilty that you are overeating.
After finishing your fourth course and five cocktails, you ask rhetorically if he would like you to pay for yours. He actually says yes. He is beginning to look more and more like boyfriend material.
You arrive back at your house fairly early, so you feel obliged to invite your date in for a wine. He asks if you have any Jim Beam instead. Whilst you are turning your cupboards upside down for a wine alternative, your date is making himself comfortable on the couch.
You hand him a Vodka Cruiser whilst drinking the expensive Riesling that you have bought especially for a post-date drink. After several attempts at making conversation and failing, you switch the TV on. Your date has already seized the Sky remote, and before you could even see the opening credits of Coronation Street, your date has switched over to the cricket. You grimace as you see that it is a five day test match, but rejoice that he is so engrossed in it that you can down your wine without distraction.
Feeling rather tipsy, you tell your date to leave because you are going to bed. It is only 10 o'clock, but you really want to watch Game of Thrones and the thought of sharing your bed with a real-life Dothraki is not very appealing.
You tell him that you definitely don't want to miss an episode because it is your favourite show. Sadly, you discover that it is also his favourite show. After a lengthy conversation about the murder of Joffrey, and another glass of wine, you fall into bed with your dream date.
The morning after, he leaves the house without a word. You wake up, and despite despising all but a few minutes of the night before, you are offended that your date has left without a trace. You check your phone. He has text you: "Hi there. Last night was ok but I don't think that you're my type. I don't like girls that put out on the first date".
You crawl back under the covers and vow never that you will never do this again ... until next time.
These are, sadly, all real experiences from women I know.
Have you ever been on dates worse than this? Can you relate to any part of this story? Is this typical of Kiwi men or women?
"What shall I wear tonight?". You fill the rest of the line with exclamation and question marks to let them know that this is a code red situation. A reply is necessary now, not after they've made a coffee or gone to the supermarket.
You take off your work clothes and feel the unthinkable rubbing against your stockings: Prickly legs. Using your flatmate's razor, you de-fur hard to reach creases and crevices. Your heart sinks as you realise that you don't have a thigh gap. And you have a pimple.
You apply your make-up and resort to wearing your fall-back outfit - the tight, black dress with stockings (for modesty) and flat shoes in case your date is particularly short. You can't remember as you were drunk and/or sitting down when you met him.
You have spent the past few days desperately trying to track down his Facebook page so that you can peruse his tagged photos (you've been stung too many times trusting profile pictures). Not knowing what to expect, you have a quick glass of Sav while you wait for the knock at the door.
It never comes. No, they haven't stood you up, they've texted you to say that they're waiting in their car on the street.
It is raining. Slightly irked, you run outside and ruin thirty minutes of work with your GHD and pray that you're wearing waterproof mascara.
It would all be worth it if they were driving a flashy Mercedes, but you vaguely recognise your date sitting in a 1986 Toyota Hilux. Your heart sinks. This is when you know that you are going on a date with the stereotypical New Zealand man.
You clamber into the passenger seat and sit on a pile of fast food wrappers. Your date does not apologise. A can of DB sits in the drinks holder - you ask to have a sip. Too late. It's already been used as a makeshift ashtray and you get a mouthful of Benson and Hedges with your beer.
On the way to the restaurant, you attempt to make conversation with your date by asking about their job, if they've travelled, where they've lived, etc. They have a one-line response to each and you're running out of material.
You panic, so you raise the topic that never fails to excite the New Zealand man: The All Blacks. The transformation is miraculous. Suddenly, your date awakes from their boredom-induced slumber and will not stop talking. You chip in with the odd bit of SBW gossip, but your date rapidly reminds you that he no longer plays for New Zealand.
The conversation naturally flows into rugby league at this point, and even though you try hard to follow, your knowledge of the Warriors is as bad as his knowledge of My Kitchen Rules.
You check your phone - your best friend. She tells you to wear your loose, red dress with some shape-wear to "tuck that tummy in". Too late. You're already wearing your super tight black number without Spanx pants.
Feeling self conscious, you breathe in, sit up straight and cover your stomach with your handbag.
At the restaurant, you climb out of the ute and notice that your date has not quite put the same amount of effort into his appearance as you have. He is wearing a t-shirt, with the slogan "SIX PACK COMING SOON" on the front, along with some distressed jeans that would barely look passable on Justin Timberlake. Balanced underneath his beer belly, they actually look quite nauseating.
You regret not organising a "get out" plan, but being forward thinking, you realise that you could still get a free meal out of this guy. You decide to keep calm and carry on.
At the table, your date actually gains some brownie points. His insatiable appetite allows you to order exactly what you want without feeling guilty that you are overeating.
After finishing your fourth course and five cocktails, you ask rhetorically if he would like you to pay for yours. He actually says yes. He is beginning to look more and more like boyfriend material.
You arrive back at your house fairly early, so you feel obliged to invite your date in for a wine. He asks if you have any Jim Beam instead. Whilst you are turning your cupboards upside down for a wine alternative, your date is making himself comfortable on the couch.
You hand him a Vodka Cruiser whilst drinking the expensive Riesling that you have bought especially for a post-date drink. After several attempts at making conversation and failing, you switch the TV on. Your date has already seized the Sky remote, and before you could even see the opening credits of Coronation Street, your date has switched over to the cricket. You grimace as you see that it is a five day test match, but rejoice that he is so engrossed in it that you can down your wine without distraction.
Feeling rather tipsy, you tell your date to leave because you are going to bed. It is only 10 o'clock, but you really want to watch Game of Thrones and the thought of sharing your bed with a real-life Dothraki is not very appealing.
You tell him that you definitely don't want to miss an episode because it is your favourite show. Sadly, you discover that it is also his favourite show. After a lengthy conversation about the murder of Joffrey, and another glass of wine, you fall into bed with your dream date.
The morning after, he leaves the house without a word. You wake up, and despite despising all but a few minutes of the night before, you are offended that your date has left without a trace. You check your phone. He has text you: "Hi there. Last night was ok but I don't think that you're my type. I don't like girls that put out on the first date".
You crawl back under the covers and vow never that you will never do this again ... until next time.
These are, sadly, all real experiences from women I know.
Have you ever been on dates worse than this? Can you relate to any part of this story? Is this typical of Kiwi men or women?
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