Marianne was in her junior year at a women's college in New England, and she was thrilled when—after many mixers and parties with guys from nearby schools who breathed with their mouths open and spilled beer in her hair—she met a guy who seemed nice, smart, and not the least bit slack-jawed. He said he was 22 and in his senior year at a well-known institution in Boston. He said—note this part and remember it for later—that he was getting his bachelor’s in math and economics. Obviously, homeslice was no slouch. Marianne thought she’d hit the jackpot.
He asked her out, and they agreed to go to the Museum of Fine Art (MFA) in Boston. Now, Marianne has a deep and abiding love of art. She had, in fact, just returned from a summer in Italy studying—wait for it—art. She informed him of this, so off to the MFA they went. While she gazed adoringly at Monet’s water lilies, the guy turned to her and said, his voice practically brimming with annoyance while he fidgeted with his sleeves, “Whoever this artist is, he must’ve been really lazy. All these paintings are of the same thing.”
She had to sit down for a moment.
After she collected herself, they continued walking through the museum. They walked past a tour, and upon hearing the docent talking about a piece by Raphael, her date started to mumble. “Rafael…Rafael…where do I know that name from? It sounds so familiar…Rafael…oh! I know! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!” He turned to her triumphantly, eager to discuss Rafael, Michelangelo, and whoever the hell the other Ninja Turtles were.
Marianne nearly fainted.
When she got home that evening, she decided to do a quick Google search on this dude. And lo…his resume was the first hit. She opened it.
Remember how I told you to mentally file away his age and educational status? Think of it now.
Upon reading his resume, she saw that he had graduated college ten years before they met. He was 32, not 22. He was getting his graduate degree, not his Bachelor’s.
Shortly thereafter, he emailed her to see when they’d be going out again. She said never. He wanted to know why, so she explained that she’d found his resume and had thus uncovered the fact that he was a flaming liar—so flaming a liar, in fact, that his pants were probably on fire as he read her email. A week later, he emailed again to ask if she’d forgiven him yet. She replied in the negative, and for added measure noted that she had too much self-respect to date someone who’d proven himself a liar from the start.
He was silent for about a week, after which he emailed again. The message was simply, “Hello? Are we going to go out again?”
I’m not sure what Rafael (the artist or the turtle) would’ve done, but she certainly didn’t respond.
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