Miranda – This is the story that started it all for me: online dating, random meetups and an exploration of the Toronto dating pool. Although after hearing it, you’ll probably wonder why it wasn’t my last.
Let’s go back about 4 years ago. I’m young, I’m naïve, and I’m craving love and attention. Not so much has changed since then but that’s beside the point. This is before Tinder came into play so the only options really out there were the standard OkCupid and Plenty of Fish type sites. After a few days on the site and countless creepy messages, I receive a message from a refreshingly decent looking dude. I take a chance and we begin talking for the span of about 3 days before we decide to meet up for drinks. However, I’m ashamed to admit I made a rookie mistake. He was an English major, and boy did it show. I allowed myself to sext with him (NEVER AGAIN!) and things turned heated pretty quick. I’ll give him this: he definitely had a way with words that got you going, a cunning linguist if you get my drift. The reason I say this is a rookie mistake is because if you haven’t yet met the guy, by sexting, you set up all these weird expectations before you even get to decide if you actually like him. Which, judging by the tone of this post so far, it’s pretty clear to see that I later found out that I did not.
I met Mr. Belt at a subway station and my first instinct as a business student was to introduce myself with a handshake. First impression: HOLY SHIT LEAVE BEFORE ITS TOO LATE. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was tall and awkward. Mr. Belt’s handshake was the definition of a soft, limp, fish aka a complete turn off. In fact, the memory of that hand exchange still gives me shivers to this day. I panicked at the idea of spending the next couple hours with him but I pushed the thought away and our date continued.
We ventured our way to the cheapest and grungiest bar in the 6ix (his pick, obviously) and we split a pitcher of what I’m pretty sure was diluted piss. Now, I’m going to skip the rest of the date and fast forward to the end, because that’s how he earned the name Mr. Belt.
We are now waiting at a bus stop and during this time, somehow the subject of tattoos came up. So, naturally I asked him if he had any. Before I continue, keep in mind we are outside on a busy intersection at about 9pm at night and there are definitely more than a few people out and about. Instead of answering my question like a normal human being, Mr. Belt proceeded to respond by unbuckling his belt. Before I had a chance to express my horror, he quickly pulled down his pants to reveal his boxers and bare legs. Apparently, he thought a live demonstration would be the best way to show me his crappy amateur tattoo of an “X” on his right knee. At this point, I’m pretty sure I was still in shock and had not uttered a word until I looked down at his hands and noticed something that made me burst out in nervous, crazed laughter. In his slim, oddly feminine hands were the remnants of his broken belt and belt buckle; a result of his rushed attempt to reveal his ink. Hindsight is 20/20 and I’m pretty sure at that moment, he regretted everything including life itself. He hastily pulled his pants back up, oversized and sagging due to its typical dependence on a belt and I looked away to give him some privacy.
The remainder of the wait for the bus was a blur, and we stood uncomfortably next to each other in quiet torture waiting for this entire situation to end. Eventually, the bus came and we parted ways with what I can only describe as a sad excuse of a hug. Somehow, he had the balls to ask if we would see each other again. Even as I weakly nodded yes, we both knew in my eyes that that was the last thing I would ever want to do.
And so, the story of Mr. Belt was born.
Well, if there’s one lesson to be learned here: invest in quality belts, for you may never know when you need to depend on its quality stitch and superior leather hide.