“He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink”– Virginia Woolfe
For one to say that they enjoy going on first dates is as if one were to say that they enjoy going to the dentist to get three cavities filled, in one sitting.
Yet, we agree to revel in a night of unexpected, yet guaranteed awkwardness, in desperate hopes that this will be the last “first” date we will ever have to go on. And while there is a .000678% chance that our next first will be our last, we groom ourselves to be presentable, pop a mint in our mouths and pep talk the heck out of our lanky bodies in front of the mirror as we demand that this time we will NOT (no means no) violate rule #1 of going on a first date: don’t be weird.
How come going on first dates never gets easier?
In fact I have found that recently, all of my first dates end with me coming home, throwing my keys down on the coffee table, placing the palms of my hands on my forehead as I bob and weave around the painful truth that yes, I did it again. I said too much, didn’t use my table manners, laughed at my own poorly constructed jokes.
I’ve decided to make it easier, to break it down, to lay it all out on the table and say that if YOU go on a date with ME, this is what you should expect:
As you give me the initial hug hello, know, just know that I have already put you through the ringer of a background check. Because lets be real honest, the Internet was invented for girls to use in order to screen people who ask them out on dates. This makes being asked out by someone you meet in line at a coffee shop, on the L train or for all you missed-connection lovers on craigslist, a little less creepy.
You may start by asking what I spend my 9-5 M-F doing and I will answer your abbreviations with two single letters, PR. You will say something nice that hits the notes of, “I can see that” or “Is that what you really want to do?” And to curb me ranting and raving about how I want to be a writer, I will just get to the point.
Ask you where you stand on politics, how you feel about a man named Romney. What is your view on Obama Care? And while I spit out Off Limit Topics, I will most likely be stuffing down a caesar salad and chomping down on croutons that I quickly pick up with my fingers.
Yes, sometimes I Eat With My Fingers.
You may ask me what I do for fun and I’ll tell you that I blog. I write wacky posts about the things I learned for all to read and you ask me, with the most endearing, frightened tone that I have ever witnessed aside from a speech out of Pride and Prejudice, not to Blog About You.
I will go to put on my winter coat and while I worry about falling head over heels, not from love, no way sire, from my 5 inch heels, I will Knock Over A Glass. Now, this is the true test because I have found that 9/10 guys are extremely embarrassed by this clumsy default. The other 1/10 are too busy checking out the other females twirling their olives that they don’t even notice. That is normally it, right then and there, a fatal hug goodbye and we walk our separate ways. You toward 3rd ave me toward Lex.
It is up to you if you want to see me again, because to be honest, when it comes to dates I always believe in second chances.
I’ll put it this way, my friends. There won’t be any mundane discussions of Bach over a glass or Merlot and their certainly won’t be any romantic googly-eye gazes while we hold on to each others finger nails and slurp down an abnormally long string of spaghetti, Lady and her good ol’ tramp style. But, we certainly will laugh until water shoots out of our noses, as we dip the edges of our bread in butter and feast like barbarians. This I can promise you.
867-5309. Jenny, Jenny.
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