Aug. 21, 2005
CHRISTOPHER HUTSUL |
| Evangeline Lilly, the pride of Abbotsford, B.C., plays Kate Austin, an Iowa girl with a murky criminal past, in Lost. The show centres on a planeload of people marooned on an uncharted South Pacific isle. |
I
went on a date with the second sexiest woman in the world, and I don't remember
a thing about it.
Let me explain every painful detail.
It was 1998. I was 20 years old, and had just returned from college for a summer job at a 10-minute oil change shop in my hometown of Abbotsford, B.C. The hours were long, the days were hot, and the nightlife, other than Toonie Tuesday at the wave pool, was non-existent. Lonely, and unable to shake the stench of seared motor oil, I succumbed to depression.
Why couldn't every night be Toonie Tuesday?
My little sister, ever a pal, came to the rescue. She suggested I call on one of her classmates for a date. Eighteen-year-old Nicole Lilly, my sister said, had a crush on me, and would possibly be interested in going on a date.
So I made the call. Set up a plan. Degreased myself. Picked her up. Went out for dinner. Coffee. Kiss on the cheek (maybe?). Dropped her off. Never called back.
It was very possibly the least eventful date, maybe even evening, of my life. The conversation was pleasant, but there was more action to be had at the oil change (Miss, for $19.99 we're going to have to flush your rear end), and more nudity at the wave pool (think steam room and old Sikh dudes).
I didn't think about that date again until a couple of years ago. I was watching a documentary about table hockey on CTV, when Nicole appeared on the screen, beckoning me.
"Lonely?" she asked. Well, actually ...
"Call this number to talk to singles like me."
Nicole looked amazing, but it was weird to see her on a sleazy TV commercial. The documentary returned to the screen, and Ms. Lilly once again slipped out of my consciousness.
The next time I heard her name, I was having a drink with an old friend from Abbotsford. Katie asked me if I'd seen that new ABC show Lost, about a bunch of people that get, well, lost on a tropical island. The star, she told me, was Evangeline Lilly.
"Who?"
"You know, Nicole. She changed her name to Evangeline."
I did some Googling, and yeah, my one-time date was in fact the star of a weekly television show that was quickly becoming a hit. Good for her, I thought. I called my buddy Steve to gloat.
But it wasn't before long that this point of pride became a point of irritation. About a month ago, Steve called to inform me that Nicole, make that Evangeline, had been placed second overall in Maxim magazine's Hot 100. That's one spot behind the ravishing Eva Longoria, three spots ahead of Jessica Alba, and five spots ahead of Angelina Jolie. Let's hear that one more time: ahead of Angelina Jolie.
!?
Could this really be happening? How had I managed to have a boring date with one of the most desired women on the planet? What went wrong? How had I managed to flub such an opportunity?
I probed my memory ... Evangeline had been sweet and lovely, but there was no spark. It was a non-event. We should have headed straight to the Highwayman, a grubby A-town bar, for tequila shots. I should have worn cologne ... scrubbed harder. It was the oil smell!
Frustrated, I emailed my sister. "Alyssa," I wrote. "Do you remember anything about my date with Nicole? I need to know ..."
"You're funny," she replied. "As if I can remember anything about my own high school flings."
Well that was useless and disturbing. But I wasn't going to let it go quite yet. I called my mom and asked her if she remembered me mentioning anything about the failed rendezvous.
"I think you two went to Starbucks," replied Momma Hutsul. "I think you said it was boring." Oh God, how traumatizing. I'd taken the second sexiest woman in the world to Starbucks. We probably had to stand — a born-again Harley Davidson gang usually had a monopoly on the tables and chairs.
The story was too bizarre to keep to myself. I had to tell my friends about my lame date with a future superstar. I ran the whole thing by an editor, who said I should call her up.
"See if she remembers you," he said. "Ask her if she remembers anything about the date."
My girlfriend, the No. 1 hottest woman in the world on my own list, said that was a lame idea. But I couldn't resist. I made a call, and set up an interview.
Evangeline and I chatted on Tuesday for 27 minutes. She remembered me. We talked about her meteoric and unexpected rise to fame, the mixed feelings that come with being portrayed as a sex symbol, the whirlwind of Hollywood, the grounding effect of family and friends. She was charming and articulate.
At the end of the interview, I asked her if she had any memory of our date. I had to know.
"Yeah, I think we went to Earls (a popular B.C. restaurant chain)," she said. "Maybe it was The Keg. Where else was there to go in Abbotsford?"
The date's details, it would seem, were equally forgettable to both of us. But it's comforting to know that at least she does in fact remember me.
"When I got your message, they were asking, `Do you actually know this person, or is he one of those people who was claiming that he knew you?'" she said.
"I said, `Yeah, I totally knew him. I was his sister's age ... he was that older guy who was an art-head, who was like, really out there.'"
I think it's safe to say that whatever Evangeline and I once had is gone forever.
But what I do have, and what no one can take away from me, is that I went on a bona fide date, no matter how lame, with the second hottest woman in the world. Which, you know, is pretty good for an art-head.