One of the best things about being female is that we’re generally allowed, make that able, to change our minds at a moment’s notice. Thanks to my ovaries, I get to say ‘I’m looking for a man whore’ one week, then turn around and say ‘I want to date’ the following week. That’s right folks, this week I’m going all girl on your behind(s). I am going to flip and flop all over the place, and if you quote my earlier statements back to me, I will make like a politician and deny, deny, deny! I don’t care what you have in writing, so there! You can sue me if you’re unhappy. Disclaimer out of the way, I shall now get on with it.
I want to go on a date, dammit! And soon, before I finally give in and take one of my stalker’s very many calls.
Slight detour, so I think I officially have a stalker. Stop laughing, I’m being serious. I met this man in June and within hours of meeting he’d named me his ‘soulmate’, among other things. I had two and a half drinks with him a couple of days later, in a dodgy bar no less, and now, 3 months later, the man is still calling me, at 11:30 at night, roughly twice a week. Now I’m sure that I am an amazing date (no?), but 3 months? Really? What part of ‘I continually refuse to pick up your calls at midnight’ is unclear? Okay, so maybe I kissed you goodnight that one night, but it was a sympathy kiss, you’d just spent the night crying into your beer about the ex who left you, seemed like you needed a bit of a boost is all. See, this is what you get for showing a bit of kindness to a stranger, no good deed and what not. You’re not buying that are you? Fine, I kissed the bugger in an attempt to redeem what had turned out to be a very peculiar night, figured I might as well get something out of it. I didn’t. Oh how I didn’t… You know how I keep saying my men are batshit insane? This bastard makes the rest look like amateurs. Really. When a man not only claims to have a mental condition of the obsessive variety, but then goes ahead to disclose the fact that he diagnosed himself, after watching a documentary on TV no less, and then informs me that my recent entry into his life, 48 hours ago, is just what the doctor ordered (or didn’t, as is the case)… Eh? What the… Then again, in light of the past three months, it would appear his self diagnosis was spot on, no? My life really is a tragic comedy, isn’t it? Stop nodding. Detour over.
I need to go on a date, a real date, not a loose drink after work, or breakfast the morning after the night before, I’m talking about a meal in one of those restaurants with sheets on the tables and everything. I want to spend an afternoon at the salon getting plucked, pruned and buffed to within an inch of my life. I want to spend another 2 hours standing in front of my wardrobe staring at the only two tops I own that could be misconstrued as vaguely sexy (yaani they’re low-cut enough to distract a man long enough for me to order an expensive piece of meat, and/or wine, and maybe dessert), the same top that will be paired with the only pair of jeans I own that make my ass look luscious (read firmer). And then I get to spend another half hour trying to decide between the flat loafers that do nothing for my deportment, but are comfortable enough for me to outrun a carjacker in, should the situation arise (this is a serious concern for me), and the heels that make my legs look sexy as hell (delusional, remember?), but that will in all likelihood cause blisters if I stand in them for more than half an hour. I know, weighty decisions, no? No? You just don’t get it.
Once I’m suitably coiffed and attired, I want to spend half an hour, nervously sitting by the phone, waiting for the ‘I can’t make it’ call, or more likely text, in reply to the (not so) casual ‘Hi, are we still on?’ text I sent about 3 hours earlier, give or take an hour. Finally, having gotten no response from the man and having decided to take the chance at not being stood up for a change, I shall leave the house, the stone of dread at the bottom of my stomach being tickled by the butterflies of excitement, making sure that I have my wallet with me, containing enough cash for me AND my date (don’t ask). Then I shall make the short drive up the road to the recently designated date restaurant cum bar, all the while trying to remember if I brushed my teeth (because fresh breath is my biggest concern at that point, no?), consoling myself with the knowledge that if I’m going to be stood up, at least I’ll get stood up in my almost local, where the barman will generously buy me (possibly a lot of) tequila and listen to me rail against the other half of the species. What? You think I’m being too negative? Perhaps, then again perhaps not. You know what they say, failing to plan is planning to fail.
Oh the joys of dating, I get to use all the crap clichés I have stored away in the dark recesses of my brain. Moving on swiftly…
I want to walk into the bar and find the man sitting at the counter, waiting for me. I like it when I find a man waiting for me, it means he’s punctual, seeing as how I’m rarely late for these things (thanks to my OCD tendencies, plus I’ve been waiting for this moment practically the whole day so you best believe I’ll be there on time), and punctual is very, very sexy. More important, I want to find him already seated because I like to see the look on his face when I walk in, that look pretty much determines how the rest of the date will go. Useless tip for the ladies, if the man looks up and smiles when you walk in, the man is happy to see you. I said useless, didn’t I? Seriously though, there’s a way a man smiles when he’s really happy to see you, he lights up…the best description is childlike joy, pure unadulterated delight. That first look is un-blinkered, before he has time to put his guard up and resume his macho, oh so restrained bullshit (read nervous posturing). The only other time you’ll get that look is after you’ve just shagged him to the moon and back, the only difference being that on the date his eyes won’t be cross eyed, I hope. I want to see the ‘disturbingly happy to see you’ look on my date, it reassures me that whatever else may transpire, at least I’m sure he wanted to be there to begin with.
As for the rest of the date, well, for as long as I manage not to spill any food or drink on myself, and I do not tell my very silly goat story, which for some reason always makes me snort in laughter (a real snort, I assure you its very embarrassing), and I do not blurt out anything too offensive, which happens more often than I care to admit (especially if he brings up religion, or his ex, or Arsenal), and I do not, under any circumstances, get shit-faced drunk, if none of that happens then the date will go just fine. Honestly, for as long as I am out of the house, in a joint with half decent service and clean washrooms, with a halfway decent conversationalist, plus a good red to boot, then I’m a happy camper.
I realise it seems strange that I’ll happily put down 1000 words to describe the preparation for the date, and only 50 words on the actual date, but my rule has always been to plan for things I can control and leave the rest to fate/destiny/the recently impregnated karma bitch (another Kai Nikii? first, and by Ms B no less. I always thought it would be a deviant who’d get someone pregnant in my house…). I figure, there’s no sense wasting time thinking about what a man will or will not say, will or will not do, such like nonsense, the bugger will do whatever possesses his addled brain at that point, mine is simply to survive long enough to see the main, and possibly only, course. Thing is, my hankering for a date isn’t only about the man, its also about the process, I like the anticipation of what’s to come, the fuss I go through, the ridiculous stress of getting out of the house looking (marginally?) better than usual. Simply put, I like the foreplay, sometimes more than I like the actual thing. Strange? Perhaps, but I have never claimed to be normal, have I?
And now that I’ve decided I want a date, all that’s left is to go out and find one. Oh joy! My default method was online, but in light of recent events (stalker anyone?), I’m thinking perhaps not. I think I have to go and meet a man in the flesh. Where does one do that these days I wonder? Bar? Too tedious, I’d have to get all gussied up repeatedly to go hunt, only to end up with what seemed to be an attractive specimen under the UV lights, but turned out to be a bit of a dog, and not in a good way, in the harsh light of day. Church? Insert hysterical laughter here… Work? That could work, but then I get to choose between delinquent clients and even more delinquent colleagues, and their wives. Perhaps not? Maybe I should take up an interesting hobby, like bird watching, or maybe join a book club. Only I don’t like people very much, so that probably won’t work too well for me. I could join a gym, no? No. Bloody hell, where does an anti-social, lazy bugger like me go to find a date? Ah yes, that would be the internet.
And right on cue, my stalker calls, again…
