Lindsey Christiansen
What is your idea of a perfectly atrocious first date? Everyone seems to have a different answer. In Utah, where people think that there is something wrong with you if you don’t get married before reaching the age of 25, things can get especially crazy. Read this story about how a disgusting car ruined what was otherwise certain to be true love. It will hopefully inspire you to clean up your automobile act, lest you end up a victim of perpetual singledom.
This is just a little story about the importance of cleaning your car. It was a Friday night in Utah. A powerful fog of impending awkwardness filled the air, mingling with the soupy pollution we call inversion. It was date night; a chance for redemption as I have already passed my 21st birthday unwed, a chance to cast off the letter’s “OM” that I am made to wear on my clothing—Old Maid.
My date was a first with this fellow, and we’d met in a cliché mutual-friends kind of way, meaning our undying love was a sure thing. All that was left was this date to confirm what our friends already knew to be true. He was on time (proving that the deal was all but sealed), arriving in a new Ford Fusion. As he walked up my steps my head raced over a carefully formulated checklist—he was efficient, stylish, safe, practical, technologically advanced—oh how the Ford Fusion confirmed what was already so certain to our friends: he had to be the one!
But then tragedy struck, and it all gets fuzzy from here: one moment I’m greeting him and imagining what our children will look like as we walk to the car, and the next I am sitting in his Fusion thinking, “this isn’t the Ford new-car smell…WHAT IS THAT?!” All at once, my rational expectations were spoiled, like whatever food he must have left in his car for the past year. The dreams of our happy life unraveled like my sanity as I looked around at the disgustingly interior; the horror, the horror. That car filled with trash, clothing items, literal dirt, and possibly the dead body of his last first date will haunt me forever.
We went to dinner and a movie, but the date was already irrelevant as I watched all of the other happy couples also out that night, envying their smugness as they would end their evenings in clean cars. I never heard from the foul Ford Fusion guy again--perhaps he asphyxiated on a potato chip bag while driving home from our date. My friends feel bad for his nice Ford Fusion. I feel bad for me.
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