I went on a date on Saturday night.
I know what you’re thinking.
A REAL DATE with a REAL MAN on a REAL DAY of the week? How on earth did she manage that?
And not just any day, but I received the most coveted Saturday night slot.
New girl, best spot, the Saturday slot. *Sound the slot machine, cha-ching baby!
His name was Rick. I say was, as in the past tense of knowing someone because from my experience you never know if the date is a goodbye or hello, no matter how well it goes. I have taken to referring to my dates in the past tense, and having a funeral for them when I go home because YOU NEVER KNOW. Best to not get too attached.
Rick was a complete gentlemen. He planned the date at a perfect first meeting spot, not too fancy and not too “I’m a poor person,” vibe. He asked to pick me up, but when dealing with my mortality in a stranger’s car, I always opt to drive myself first.
“No thank you, I’ll just meet you there.” I declared. I like to have some control.
“But it’s a vintage Porsche.”
Ah, Rick. He was really pulling out all the stops with that. Unfortunately for Rick, I’m not a hooker and I can’t be bought so I declined.
I was in my usual attire and practicing what I would say at the table. I get nervous sometimes.
Perpetually single and desperate for a man to buy me chicken Caesar salad.
Don’t worry, I don’t have a death wish to die alone. I dressed up for the date and looked like this:
No, not really. Let’s try again.
There it is. Fun, flirty and tiki exotic. Just the right mix of fun for a first date.
Oh and did I mention that I’m extremely socially awkward? Like, it’s BAD.
Luckily, I’ve picked up some dating strategies over the excruciating years of being single and on terrible dates. Here’s some rules of etiquette I’ve developed:
1. Don’t tell a complete stranger aka your date everything about you. Seriously, don’t do it. Assume there will be a second date and wait to do it then.
This lesson is particularly important because for some reason it’s always the tragic shit that we want to tell complete strangers and never fun things like I was a firefighter once (I was), I work in TV (I do), or I’ve traveled the world (I have).
It’s in that moment when I sit down in front of a handsome face all I can think about is my dead grandparents, that one time I committed fraud (just once) and the fact that last night I heard my sisters voice and might be going crazy because she wasn’t there.
And that’s it. Really, that’s it. Just don’t spill the beans. My theory is that putting your worst self first is the best because if they stay after hearing all that bullshit then it can only go up from there, right? Wrong. Don’t do that. Crazy people do that.
A strange thing I’ve learned to compensate for this tragic burst of words about dead anything and my past, is that you must be mysterious.
But what does that mean?
Everyone tell you to just be yourself, which is obviously the key to a happy and healthy life.
The problem is if I had a wooden nickel for every time I’ve had heard the sage advice to “just be yourself,” I’d have a log cabin. I don’t have a cabin and I still am single because I’ve taken crappy dating advice. So I decided it was time to try another one. Be mysterious.
Am I mysterious? Not at all.
My talking voice is a scream that you can hear from a mile away, I have bright blonde hair and I dress like a dandy. I am the opposite of what you would call mysterious.
I also overthink to the point of not understanding what I was thinking about in the first place. Hours of worrying and testing out the possible outcome of events eventually leads me to forget what the so-called problem was to being with. Usually the problem is a fun event, like dating is suppose to be.
I worry so much that I created an alter ego called Reb, and she is the world’s first drag king. Reb is my outgoing, fun and hilarious self that can handle the world. Rebecca is not. Rebecca was the person who got bullied as a child for not being able to read, ride a bike or do most things. Rebecca is shy, not very talkative and the complete opposite of Reb. I haven’t even decided which one is the evil twin yet.
This is Rebecca:
Boring, afraid of the world and has a killer taste in music.
This is Reb:
Life of the party and possibly insane. People love and hate her. She’s the best. Rebecca is not.
Reb is the person I would choose to go on the date if I wanted the guy to like me. Rebecca is the one I decided to take out Saturday night with Rick.
Why? Because she is vulnerable and men like that I guess. Back to being mysterious.
Thinking about being mysterious makes me wonder if I’m suppose to change myself to be that. It could be fun, after all who doesn’t want to know absolutely nothing about the person sitting across from them?
The excitement and adventure of meeting a new person! I hear men love it because it keeps them on their toes, never knowing which version of you they’ll get next. The point of a first date isn’t to connect and see if you’re compatible AT ALL. It’s meant to confuse and have the man going home asking himself a slew of questions such as:
Does she like me? Is she into sports? Does she have a severed head in her freezer ‘just cuz.’
Ah dating. The mysteries of dating. He’ll have to come back to find out the answers to all the questions in what I like to call “the second date.”
Back to my steaming hot date. I don’t kiss and tell but I will tell you this, we had a lovely time. Rick would ask me questions and I would refuse to answer most of them directly. I kept the energy alive.
Rick decided to give me a second date. I suppose being mysterious DOES work.
He kept things ultra mysterious by not planning a date for the next date.
Check and mate Rick.
You mysterious bastard.
See you soon!