The first date is a form of torture invented by Satan to punish mankind for eating bacon. I’d sooner have a dentist’s appointment than go through the moments preceding The First Kiss. If the rewards were not legendary, I honestly wouldn’t bother.
I suck at dating. I truly do. I’m not the sort of woman whose mascara stays put and whose hair stays perfectly straight. It frizzes the second it sees me put the flat iron down. I am the type of woman who doesn’t register that he was trying to fucking kiss me goddammit! And I gave him my cheek! What. An. Idiot.
People always tell me first dates are meant to be fun. Fuck those people. First dates were invented to teach us how it feels to live inside a horror movie. People also tell me that I should focus on whether he’s good enough for me and not whether I’m good enough for him, but fuck them, too. It’s impossible for me to be an adult about the whole thing. The second I show up at the restaurant, I revert back to my 13-year-old self: nervous, awkward, and, it bears repeating, terrified.
I can be a social butterfly, I swear. I’m not exactly the centre of attention, but I’m confident and likeable enough. I can carry a conversation with the best of them… unless we’re on a first date. I recently went on one with a man I’ve known for months. You’d think knowing one another so well would make it less like root canal and more like meeting an old friend for a meal, but nope.
I’m a fucking adolescent. I hope you’re picking up my frustration, because I don’t think I can describe it to you adequately.
I’ve overcome fear in a thousand courageous ways in other areas of my life, so you’d think I could manage something as easy as this, but no, I do stupid shit like spill water down my cleavage. Let’s hope it was sexy rather than humiliating. Let’s pretend I did it on purpose. Let’s skip ahead to the date after the first kiss so that I can return to my normal, serene self, because I only put myself through this for the magic that comes afterwards.