Oops is really the only appropriate word for my life lately.  I scheduled a running date on a Sunday, oops.  I scheduled a brunch date with another guy right afterwards, oops.  I accidentally engaged in day drinking that led into night drinking for hours on-end on the Saturday before both said dates, OOPS. 

Now, I’m 31 and really should know better than to have made any of the previously mentioned mistakes.  Especially since my 31-year old body can’t handle day drinking that flows into night drinking.  But sometimes I forget. 

I’m sure it goes without saying that when my alarm went off at 7am on Sunday morning, I did not exactly spring out of bed.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I pressed snooze so many times, the intensity of my iPhone alarm increased to the point that it was screaming.  When I did finally drag my sorry sack of poisoned bones from my bed at 9:30, I thought of all the possible excuses I could give. 

“Hi…,” crap what’s his name?  Oh yea, Kish.  “Hi Kish, it’s Lauren, I hate to do this to you, but I woke up with the flu this morning.”  Yea, the flu on a Sunday sounds a lot like a hangover.

“Hi Kish, it’s the weirdest thing, I sprained my ankle last night,” yea, no.  Bad karma.  I don’t know what I’d do with a sprained ankle right now.

“Hi Kish, it’s Lauren, um, so is there any way we can do a rain check?  I’m about to throw up right now.”  I like it.  It’s honest, and well…honest. 

I forced a cup of coffee down my throat, gagging twice, and prepared to call.  Then an overwhelming surge of nausea crippled my body and I crawled to the bathroom.  I stared at our toilet bowl, happy I’d just cleaned it, and wondered how the heck I was going to get through this run that was also a first date.  I was feeling less than charming. 

“Who schedules a first date at 11am on a Sunday?  Crap.  I have to go to brunch also.”  I started to cry.  “I hate dating.”

Then the doorbell rang.  I looked at my phone—10:55am. 

“Who shows up early for a date on a Sunday??”

I dragged myself to my room, threw on the only clean workout clothes I had, swept my hair into a bumpy ponytail and grabbed my shoes, keys and cell phone on the way out the door.

“Did I rush you?”

Flustered, I looked up to see a guy with two earrings and stopped.  Not plugs, not hoops, not bling; earrings.  Earrings I would borrow, I might add.  Right.  We walked to his car, I got in, and as soon as he started driving, I felt my impending doom.

His car was a stick shift and he drove like it was his first…like he’d just bought it.  We jerked and started over the hills in Noe Valley, made a wrong turn, had to flip a “U”, and blew through an intersection or two.  By the time we were solidly on our way to Ocean Beach, the hot clammy feeling of nausea was again overtaking my body.  I swallowed a little throw up and then concentrated all my efforts on breathing….and not throwing up.  And even though I kept my eyes focused on the road ahead, I couldn’t help but notice he kept rolling down his window for a little bit, and then he’d roll it up.  A few minutes later, he’d do it again.  By the third time, I rolled my window all the way to show him, “It’s ok if you’re farting, just don’t be so obvious about it.”

When we pulled up to the parking lot at Land’s End, I got out of the car, thankful to be on solid, unmoving ground, and put my head between my knees.

“Are you ok?”

“Yup,” I answered from my forward fold, “I’m just stretching.” 

Early on in the run it became apparent that he wasn’t a runner (which begs the question, why would you choose this as a date?) but I had never been more grateful for a tortoise-like pace.  I had heartburn.  My nausea was returning.  I again had to swallow my throw up.  I should not have been there.

Then as we were about to climb some stairs I was not anticipating, he turned to me and said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Really?  You picked me up 10 minutes ago.  What are you, 8? 

“That’s fine, I have to also.”  And I took my opportunity to go in the opposite direction, fold over under a tree and throw up for a solid minute or two.  I know; the irony.

“Are you ok?”  I think that’s the third time he’s asked me that today.

“Um, yea, just not feeling that well.” 

Two days after the date I received an email from him saying he thought I was a great girl, but that he didn’t feel like we had any chemistry.  Gee.  Wonder why.


  1. Love the blogging!! Too funny 🙂

  2. Keep em coming, Lauren! I love your blog and feel your dating pain. But more importantly, you’re back in SF?! can’t wait to see you!

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