I went on a bad date last night. It was with the kind of guy who describes his loft as industrial, yet clearly has never worked a day of hard labor in his life. Not that he was a bad person, just a little too dainty for my tastes.

He took me to a low-rent art show, the kind where disapproving gallerinas refuse to pour more than two sips of wine into cheap plastic cups. On the bright side, the people-watching was epic. There was no crowd control whatsoever, and the tiny gallery was choked with hipster lunatics with zero interpersonal skills. Watching them constantly violate each other’s personal space was far more interesting than anything on the walls.

The face-palmiest moment of the evening came when I learned that one of the show’s artists was my date’s ex-girlfriend, a fairly important bit of information he chose to share with me right as we were walking into the gallery.

It was pretty obvious he was using me as arm candy, which normally I don’t mind, but I absolutely cannot stand being bamboozled, and dropping an ex bomb at the doorway is one of the oldest bamboozles in the book.

The dude’s fate was sealed when I realized I liked hanging out with his ex more than him. Turns out, she was the cool one. We bonded over how little either of us gave a shit about the date.

So yeah, I guess it wasn’t a total loss. She and I traded numbers. We might hang out. I dunno. I’ve built friendships in this town on a lot less than a bad date with someone’s ex.