Mother%27s Bad Date Best

I laughed, assuming this was the extent of the damage. I was wrong. The next text came at 7:51 PM: "He ordered for me."

Your dignity is not up for negotiation. And you deserve scallops you actually ordered. 1/10 (lost a point for the coupon, gained a point for providing excellent family lore).

My mother sipped her wine. "I'm not sure that's a statistic, David." mother%27s bad date

My mother, the librarian, the woman who fact-checks grocery lists, sat across from a man who believed that lizards live in the center of the earth.

My mother was nervous. She tried on four different blouses. She asked me if her lipstick was too "murder-y." I told her it was perfect. She took a deep breath, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door with the look of a woman who was cautiously optimistic. I laughed, assuming this was the extent of the damage

I have never been prouder of another human being. When she got home, she kicked off her heels, changed into sweatpants, and ate a bowl of ice cream directly from the carton. We sat on the couch and dissected every moment like it was a true crime documentary.

But she stayed. Because my mother is a polite Midwesterner, and polite Midwesterners would rather eat dirt scallops than cause a scene. This is where the date went from "awkward" to "witness protection worthy." And you deserve scallops you actually ordered

"Did you know," David said, chewing a piece of bread with his mouth open, "that women over 50 are statistically the happiest demographic because they finally stop caring about romance?"