When I agreed to dine with Vanessa, I wasn’t signing up for dinner theater. But there we were at a posh restaurant, and she was ringing a bell for service as if she were queen of some undiscovered kingdom. It was a scene straight out of a sitcom—and not the good kind.

Now, I’m usually pretty intuitive about red flags, and Vanessa’s dating profile had declared she was “high maintenance but worth it.” But I had shrugged it off as cheeky bravado. Little did I know that this date was going to be a live-action disaster movie—with me in the starring role, dodging metaphorical debris.

We met amidst a symphony of jazz music and the chimes of glasses at an upscale downtown restaurant. Vanessa swept in wearing an outfit fit for the runway. Before we even sat down, she fished out a gleaming silver bell from her bag. I naively assumed it was some cute inside joke or quirky charm to break the ice. Wrong. Oh, how wrong I was.

I chuckled, “What’s the bell for? A secret weapon against bad service?” Her smirk responded, but it was as comforting as a cold breeze on a winter morning. As we took our seats, the bell jingled. Heads turned, judging eyes bored into us, and I wished I could crawl under the table like a very well-dressed mole.

A server arrived, bemusement painted all over his face. “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?” Vanessa looked quite pleased with herself, ordering without as much as a glance at the menu. The poor server walked away, puzzled, reflexively shooting me a look of shared disbelief. I should’ve taken his confusion as an escape cue.

Throughout our dinner, every request was accompanied by that bell’s infernal jingle. It was as if “ding” was her new form of communication. Water? Ding. Bread? Ding. Another cocktail? Double ding. Each chime chipped away at my spirit.

Here’s the kicker—the staff at this restaurant had seen entitled antics before and were done playing along. Vanessa’s incessant dinging was met with stoic professionalism. No one came to the table anymore. The bell had turned from a signal for service to a comical prop in this theater of absurdity. She was getting ‘dinged’ right back by the universe.

The final act kicked off when the restaurant manager calmly approached, his face the picture of neutrality. “I saw you banging on that broken bell so hard, I thought I’d come and check if you were okay.” If sarcasm could maroon you on a desert island, Vanessa would be looking at a lifetime of coconuts and solitude.

Vanessa, still in a Parisian daydream, insisted, “Broken? It’s not broken!” But the manager, an Oscar-worthy performer, suggested altruistically, “Perhaps good old-fashioned waving might work better.” I nearly choked on my laughter.

I thought it couldn’t get more surreal until a fellow diner tossed an impromptu curveball—or fastball, to be more precise. He sauntered over and asked how much the novelty cost, then, with one fluid motion, flung Vanessa’s prized possession onto the roof like a champion shot-putter. He dropped a $20 on the table like a mic after delivering the perfect punchline.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected the neighborhood choir of laughter to join in, but there it was—sweet, symphonic, and unforgiving.

Vanessa was livid. “Are you just going to sit there and let that guy throw my bell?” she shrieked, cheeks flushed with indignation.

I leaned back, savoring the chaos. “Vanessa,” I said, trying to mask my amusement with faux sincerity, “no one’s into this whole bell strategy. It doesn’t carry the pizzazz you think it does.”

Confounded, she retorted, “Efficiency, that’s what this is. I don’t see the issue.” Clearly, the thought process was worth a whole Harvard symposium in itself.

Finally, even this circus had to come to a crescendo. She demanded the bill, and when it mercifully arrived, she remained oblivious to the tradition of splitting. I paid, sealing the deal that this was a one-night-only performance.

As we strolled to the parking lot, Vanessa couldn’t resist a parting shot, all eye rolls and superiority: “Some people just don’t appreciate class.”

Flash of genius or not, the entire date was a testament to the old adage: entitlement doesn’t just embarrass you; it makes everyone else around you involuntarily star in your vaudeville act. As for the bell? It’s likely still enjoying its perch on the roof, basking in well-deserved obscurity.