You knew this was coming

I've posted entry after entry about the fashion choices of my exes, the whole time avoiding the one issue that really bothered me: Fred. I naively believed that by posting generic complaints about his three predecessors, he would have caught on to the fact that I am very aware of the clothes that the men I date are wearing.

But Fred was none too bright in the way of behaving appropriately.This was evident through his lack of manners, his lack of style, his lack of consideration for others and his inability to not constantly look like a douche. Social graces? He had none.

Fred graduated from college a year before I did, so we had a long distance relationship for a year (which is probably the only reason we dated so long -- if I had to put up with his fat-ass humiliating me on a day-to-day basis, I would have told him to kick rocks a long time ago).

Anyway, I had come home for a short time during our long distance thing. My parents live about 45 minutes away from his apartment, so going out with him was a bit of an ordeal.We had made plans for him to come pick me up (my car was at school) at my parents' house at 7:30, then we would go to dinner, then go to a bar in Annapolis.

I spent the next hour getting ready to go out. I hadn't seen him in several weeks, so I was expecting this to be a big deal. I put on my Rock & Republic jeans, a cute top and stilettos. I did my make-up (and not just the half-assed going-to-work make-up I normally wear) and straightened my hair. I give myself an A+.

Well, 7:45 rolled around and I heard Fred'sbusted-ass car drive up and him get out and ring my doorbell. I was excited about seeing him, and ran down the steps, eager to go on our date.

However, my excitement turned to shock, then rage, then disappointment the second I opened the door. Standing there was my fat-ass boyfriend wearing a too-tight, tucked-in, pit-stained Hanes undershirt under a wrinkled unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt which was most likely purchased at Wal-mart and a pair of crusty-ass Birkenstocks which revealed his monster toenails. The worst part of all, however, was the pair of ripped-up jorts he was wearing.

I am not kidding.

Honest to God, jorts.

I was absolutely livid. I had just spent the last hour making myself look cute and he looked like he had rolled out of bed. I told him I was pissed by what he was wearing. He carried on in his annoying-ass-ignorant-as-hell-sounding-not-fully-capable-of-speaking-English way about how he wasn't sure where we were going.

If he had been listening, this would not have been an issue. But more importantly,why would he think this was acceptable for anywhere? I asked him where the hell this outfit was appropriate for. Clearly not going out to dinner. Clearly not going out to the type of bar I had planned to go to. In fact, I can only think of three places where this get-up would have been appropriate: 1) to wash a car; 2) to wear to Wal-mart; 3)Applebees. Our plans involved none of these.

I went up stairs and put on my casual jeans with a t-shirt and flip-flops. We went to Fudruckers. I had a nasty-ass hamburger. Fred wanted to go to a bar afterward, but I was too embarrassed to even take him to Notties. I mean, there could have been people I knew from high school there. And if I showed up with that piece of trailer trash...well, a lot of people know me, and they would have talked.

So, after Fudruckers, I went home and sent Fred back to his place. I have never had a more horrible date than I did that night.

Fred- I was always so out of your league. The least you could have done was try to dress-up a little. I hope you get the woman you deserve one day.

That woman has buck teeth, a tattoo, a perm, a spaghetti-strap tank top, shorts to her see-you-next-Tuesday and platform sandals. Go get her, Tiger!