I’m just going to get this out of the way and tell you that I am a bad person. Not evil, like I would never hurt an animal—but I can be a truly terrible excuse for a human being when it comes to certain things.
And one of those things is dating. You see, when I am unhappy in a situation, I want to leave. That is a normal reaction, but what is not normal is how I choose to handle it. And that’s with the classic Irish exit.
Unfamiliar with the term? Let me explain: the Irish exit is when you are in a social situation and slip out without telling anyone that you are leaving. I don’t know why the great country of Ireland claimed this stealthy exit, but it did, and even though I am zero part Irish, I’ve used this method a lot.
As to why, it shouldn’t need to be spelled out, but if you have manners, you wouldn’t dream of doing it, so here goes: I do it so I don’t have to do the whole “bye” thing, explain my reasons for leaving, or, gasp, have someone try to convince me to stay. It’s just easier. Rude? Yes. But so much less of a hassle.
Those of us who use this strategy also don’t like conflict, and this is a great way to avoid it! Instead of being a grown-up and explaining to people that I want to go home, I quietly slip out, and I’ll deal with any fallout later.
I’ve done this to friends and loved ones, so if you think I’d spare a date with a random stranger I met on a dating app from my immaturity, LOL. This finally brings us to my point.
I will now regale you with the story of the great escape, which was my stealthy exit from the world’s most boring date I’ve ever had the displeasure of going on.
The Date
A few weeks ago, I matched with a cute man on a dating app, and we had a little banter going on in the DMs, took it to text and planned to meet up. Nothing unusual about that, or so I thought.
The night was warm-ish, so I put on my new Anthropologie dress with a cropped cardigan in case it got chilly (I’m setting the scene here), ordered an Uber, and set off to meet my match at a restaurant/bar.
I got there before him—let’s call him “Ben” to protect his identity, and ordered a margarita. I chatted with the bartender, who bought my drink, and he was really cute (foreshadowing). Ben arrived, sat on the bar stool next to me, introduced himself, yadda yadda.
By that time, I’d finished my marg, so he ordered some kind of IPA and offered to get me another drink. So far, so good.
And then I tried to talk to him. When I say it was like extracting teeth, I am not being dramatic. I assumed he was shy and would loosen up with some liquid courage, so I suggested we do a shot of tequila.
The cute bartender obliges, pours us the shots, and we toast–down the hatch. We sat in awkward silence for a few minutes before I tried to engage again, and still got nothing. But the bartender was super chatty with me whenever he passed by!
Ben finished his IPA, and he asked me if I wanted another. Now, here is the point where any normal adult would say “no, thank you” and call it a night. Not me! I put on a new dress for this, and I was determined to have a good night—I’m not a quitter.
Halfway through his second pale ale or whatever it was, Ben started to talk. Amen, it was a miracle! And then I realized what he wanted to talk about, and the subject was Bitcoin.
As Ben droned on and on about his extensive Bitcoin portfolio, I realized I was in trouble. My eyes were glassing over because 1) I don’t understand cryptocurrency, and 2) Even if I did, I don’t care about it. I tried to switch up the topic several times, but after 30 minutes of his lecture on all things dark web money, I needed to get out of there.
So when he asked me if I’d like another drink, I declined, and he said, “Why not?” It wasn’t necessarily aggressive, but there was a tone with a hint of “I’ve bought you a few drinks so I am entitled to your time and energy,” and that made me uneasy.
I accepted the drink and then excused myself to the ladies’ room.
The Exit
Now, the first step in any stealthy escape is to have your wits about you. But I was several drinks deep and had less wits about me than usual.
In the ladies’ room, I began to plot my route out of the bar. If I used the front door, I’d have to walk right by Ben—no good. But if there was a back door, I could Irish exit my butt right outta there and never look back.
I peeked my head out of the ladies’ room, and luck was on my side as the bartender was walking by. I “psst’d” him and inquired about a back exit. He told me that I could use it, pointed out where it was, and asked if I was okay and if I needed help or a rescue from my date. Guess it was obvious that I wanted to escape!
I ducked back into the bathroom, ordered an Uber, and waited. Then, there was a knock on the door. Who was it? If you guessed my date, ding ding ding! Of course, I panicked, even though he was only asking if I was okay since I’d been gone a long time (seriously, it was like 5 minutes, c‘mon dude).
So what did I do? Did I exit the bathroom like a normal person and just tell this cryptocurrency enthusiast that I was leaving? Nope!
The Escape
I yelled back that I was fine, I’d be out in a minute, and hoped he’d go away. He did not. He said something about having ordered me another drink and that he’d wait for me.
For some reason, that set off alarm bells, so I frantically looked around and saw the window. It was a first-floor establishment, so this seemed like the perfect answer to my boring (and now posted up like a sentry outside of the door, barring any stealthy escape through the back or the front door, for that matter) date.
Did I climb up onto a sink and unlatch the window? Yes, I did. Did I push the screen out onto the pavement below? Also, yes. Did I get myself through a bathroom bar window and safely onto the ground? I did, indeed.
The only casualty was a little bit of my dignity and my new dress, which had caught on a jagged part of the sill on my way through and torn clean down the side. But I was out and booked it around to the front of the building, where my Uber (a blue Honda Civic, thank you very much) awaited.
Takeaways
Thinking back on my not-so-daring great escape, I realized that while it’s good to have an exit strategy from a boring date, it’s even better to avoid needing one.
Maybe next time, I’ll vet my dates a bit better, or at least ensure they have more interesting things to talk about other than Dogecoin. Or I’ll be honest and say I’m not feeling it. Jk, jk, I’ll continue to Irish exit.
In the end, my great escape did not teach me any kind of valuable lesson, but I do know that life is way too short to spend it trapped on a date with someone you hope you never see again and always to wear sensible clothing, like pants, if there is any chance you’ll have to maneuver yourself through a bathroom window.
Hopefully, on my next date (it’s with the cute bartender—told ya, foreshadowing), I won’t need an escape plan.
