Dating Disaster #9,904: The Long and Jort of It

05/27/2010 11:56 am ET | Updated May 25, 2011
  • Gena Grish If there is one thing Gena Grish is, it is a professional

Urban Dictionary defines jorts as "a combination of the words 'jeans' and 'shorts' to describe the hideous attire worn by D-bags, NASCAR aficionados and men over 40 with braided belts and cell phone clips." Well said, Urban Dictionary, well said. Sadly, this term helps to define my next date.

Jorts and I met on the bus one morning on my way to work about a year ago. He was attractively dressed in his business suit, moderately funny, and had a refreshingly sunny disposition about him. We talked the entire bus ride from Wrigleyville to downtown, and by the time I had offered my seat to the elderly lady standing in front of me, he had offered up his phone number. We had a first date, which, truthfully, was a little vanilla. A couple weeks later, Jorts was offered a job in Connecticut, and within 3 weeks he was gone from my life just as quickly as he had appeared.

Flash forward to 2 weeks ago when he found me on Facebook and emailed me, saying that he was coming back to Chicago for a few days to attend his father's funeral. He asked if he could see me and said that he needed a place to crash for the weekend before the proceedings. I think I was suckered into it by the sound of grief and vulnerability in his voice because, eventually, I blindly offered up my sofa bed to him.

He arrived late Friday night, and in the dim light of the hallway, he actually looked cuter than I remembered... and he smelled good. My defenses are always lowered for an instant when I smell a man who smells like fresh laundry, so when he leaned in for a pretty intense hello kiss, I just went with it. I made up the sofa bed for him and told him that I had to go to work in the morning, but would be home by 1pm, and then we could grab lunch together. I came home the next day, admittedly pretty psyched to see him, and spend the afternoon as a pretend couple. As you all know, it has been a while since I have had a great date, so the thought of holding hands and being all couple-y with someone again made me really excited!

Last year, I visited the butterfly exhibit at the Bronx Zoo, where you can walk into a tent filled to the brim with live butterflies fluttering about, and they will land on you and just rest on your arms. It's a breathtaking sight -- all of those colors and so much life and excitement in one enclosed space was simply the most amazing sight. I went last year and I can vividly remember the initial awe of being in the midst of millions of beautiful butterflies one minute, and then the next minute being shocked and disgusted when I looked down on the floor to see the cold, harsh reality that 50% of them were smooshed on the ground and sticking to the bottom of my shoes. Well, that's exactly how I felt when I walked into the house, and there he was in all of his jorts glory, eating a jelly donut with a drop of jelly on his chin. That same feeling of disappointment and disgust that I had felt in the butterfly tent that day, when looking at the bottom of my shoe, I was having again.

Now, readers, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't jorts go out of style circa 1995? Where did he find them anyway? My friend Allison thinks he borrowed them from Britney Spears. With that major fashion faux-pas aside, he is not nearly as cute as I remembered him being in the harsh reality of daylight. Maybe I built him up too much? Maybe I have an aversion towards strawberry jelly? Whatever the case, I am definitely not impressed.

I immediately excused myself for the bathroom and sent a text to my friend Erin that said, "Holy cow E, you better come home right after work. He's wearing jean shorts! Jorts for Christ's sake!" I leave the bathroom, and as I walked out, I saw him reach for his phone. Immediately, my heart dropped into my stomach. I knew, at that moment, I didn't text Erin (his real name starts with an E as well), but instead had sent him the text! Ouch...this one was going to hurt. I grabbed onto the wall to brace for the fall-out.

He looked up at me with the worst look I have ever been given by anyone in my entire life. It was a cross between the look that someone gives you when they are telling you to "eff off" and the look of someone when they realize you just killed their puppy. "Did you mean to send this to me, Gena?" he asked. Well, crap, Jorts, of course not, silly. Why would I intentionally send you something that would hurt your feelings and make me look like a total bitch? Well, at least that's what I wanted to say. Instead, I mumbled some BS excuse about it being a forwarded text message from a friend of mine, and I sent it to him because, coincidentally, he too was wearing jorts, and oh the irony of it all! Sigh. This is why I never made it in PR or Politics.

Long story short (you should know it took everything I had not to say "long story jort..."), I'm sure he didn't buy my excuse, yet he stuck around for another day and a half simply because I don't think he had anywhere else to go. It was the most uncomfortable weekend of my life, and I'm glad it's over.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get ready for my date tonight. Wish me luck...or not...seeing as if it's total crap, it will be fodder for next week's article. Stay tuned!