I’d known my neighbor for a few months when he asked me out dancing. We were both college students, and since he didn’t have a car, I offered to drive my pickup. Normally I’m a jeans-and-boots kind of girl, but I dressed up for the date—black-and-white bustier, heels, the works. When he saw me, his first words were, “You’re not wearing makeup!”—and he was genuinely upset. I laughed and said, “You aren’t either,” then asked if he wanted to skip the date. He grumbled a no, and I knew right then this night was going to be memorable, just not in the way I’d hoped.
On the way to the club, we saw a man stranded with a dead battery. I pulled over without hesitation. I popped the hood, grabbed my jumper cables, and started connecting them. My date stood off to the side, visibly annoyed. When I wouldn’t let him “take over,” he accused me of showing off. I didn’t respond. I just finished helping the guy, wiped my hands, and got back in the truck. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone—I was just doing what needed to be done. But apparently, competence was threatening.
We still went inside and danced. He kept glancing at my hand, clearly bothered by the tiny smudge of grease I hadn’t scrubbed off. I ignored it. The music was good, the crowd was lively, and I decided I wasn’t going to let his fragile ego ruin my night. I danced like I meant it, laughed with strangers, and let myself enjoy the moment. He sulked, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to babysit his insecurities—I was there to have fun.
Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t let his attitude derail the evening. I’d put effort into showing up, and I wasn’t going to apologize for being myself. If he couldn’t handle a woman who drives a truck, fixes engines, and wears heels without makeup, that was his problem. I didn’t need validation from someone who saw confidence as competition. I needed someone who could dance beside me, not shrink behind me.
He never asked me out again, and I never offered. We stayed neighbors, exchanged polite nods, but that was it. I think he expected me to be impressed by him, to play a role he’d imagined. Instead, I showed up as myself—and that rattled him. I hope it was the worst date he’s ever had. Not because I was cruel, but because it might’ve taught him something about respect, expectations, and the kind of woman who doesn’t shrink to fit.
So here’s to the busted batteries, the smudged hands, and the women who show up fully. To dancing anyway, to laughing louder, and to never apologizing for being capable. And to the dates that remind us: if someone’s bothered by your strength, they were never strong enough to stand beside you.
