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.
Just like a tacky instagram name, we to have become an officialwebsitesuperawkwardgirl.com. How great. As you don’t know, superawkwardgirl began as a blood lust project that I started at the age of 26, I’m 102 now and MUCH wiser. No, I’m an idiot and 31, but barely 31. Let’s learn a little bit about me and why you’re here and what you’ll learn:
What’s up? I’m Reb Johnson, the world’s first drag king and your not-so-humble narrator.
I was born with an empty cup and a need to survive. That drive drove me to Hollywood, California at the tendered age of 25, which was about 7 years too late (there’s gonna be a lot of numbers here so buckle up). I always wanted to be an actor, or at least I told myself that. It’s not my fault really, you see, once you get into the world people will constantly ask about your story, like you need one. So… That sounded about wrong or right, whichever one gets me there I guess.
Flash forward to now-a-day.
I’m sitting on a couch in my bachelorette apartment, it has no sink. Air conditioner. Pets.
I’m drinking the world’s strongest coffee, or so it claims to be. Who is gonna fight that statement? Probably not the world’s weakest coffee, that’s for sure.
Both of my eyes are swollen up, I believe my evil sister Victoria poisoned me over Thanksgiving because she ASSUMED I didn’t give her a birthday gift the day before Thanksgiving, which would be her 33 birthday. I did.
Leave it to a woman to assume things.
And I’m writing because I realize it’s Sunday, I have few friends and endless woes and truly need to make use of this day on earth because you’ll never get them back. Which begs the question of the day.
How many pointless day equal the great big one? The main event? Like how many not-so-special days will there be until the next GOOD or REALLY BAD one?
You know the ones, meeting the love of your life (good), losing your job (good), finding out your step brother is really a cop who has been following you for years just to tell you that your grandmother is dead but he couldn’t, seeing as how you were so happy and all at home with the family so he just kinda ASSUMED the role of cop brother and laid low until the day finally came to tell you the sobering truth about Grandma Lela’s passing (bad).
Leave it to an undercover cop brother to assume.
My last important day was August 29th 2021, in this same year and days ago. Today is November 28th, 2021, and I am bad at math. It was a while ago. Everyday since then has been relatively pointless, made up of day working, unhealthy habits going off-on repeat and endless buckets of tears. I broke my own heart that day, which I’ve done many times before, mind you.
Now, this isn’t a particular special tale of a broken heart, but it is broken and this tale is kick-ass special because it’s mine and you are here to witness the past, present and fucking future.
Sorrow. And pain. With the constant dull ache of missing you.
Right next to me at the table is where you belong, flash back seven years and there you sat at the table next to me, finishing my jokes and singing in an octave so low that grown men would feel inferior in your quake. Though, your exterior was soft and weak, just as your heart when it held me, and I you.
I miss you sorely, like the sun misses the mountains for rising, in the darkest days of the Northern lands.
I miss you in my hands, feet and eyes. Eyes no longer get to see, hands no longer get to touch and feet no longer can run. Order is lost and chaos ensues, though not the chaos I had become so accustom to.
I am drenched in ache. Though some ache cannot be felt on a physical level, merely a mental one, which no longer surprises me when it can no longer imitate joy.
I long forgot joy. Buried it deep in the yard next to your ashes which will no longer dance with life but stifle with the never lasting moon and tides.
This life is not mine own, but one given to me by the Reaper in absence of your charm and grace, but more truly, in absence of your body. Your inner core.
I know I am no good without you, and a constant reminder is held in your honor every waking moment of this infernal life of mine.
What is it I miss this holiday season? Why, it’s what every crying-ageless mother has been missing, what every lonely heart and damned-soul needs. I am missing what is given naturally to each babe born, I am missing unconditional love of a family indeed.