I’m floating elegantly around the kitchen in my oh-so-casual little black dress. You know the type—cut to look like a cocktail frock, but made from T-shirt material so that you can look all cocktail frock-ish while preparing a ‘spontaneous’ lunch for your date. Instead of grabbing wet cutlery from the drip tray, I delicately fetch a spoon from the drawer (“Dating me” puts her dishes away neatly, doncha know?)
Am I wearing underwear? Hell no. This is “dating me”, and she’s too sexy for knickers.
I don’t swear. I don’t burn myself either. Oh, no. “Dating me” knows that this sauce is perfect because she measures ingredients with a real measuring spoon instead of throwing it in while headbanging to Bohemian Rhapsody the way “real me” does.
“Dating me” has bought two matching plates for the occasion because ”real me” can’t leave crockery unbroken long enough to serve as a set. I’m wearing carefully applied mascara because only the real me wears clumpy makeup. I’m talking to my date about how I couldn’t find any prosciutto at Woolies because “dating me” knows what the fuck that is.
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I’m ever so neatly pedicured to enhance my don’t-give-a-fuck-but-look-how-sexy-I-look-anyway bare feet because even “dating me” can’t wear stilettos for five minutes without crying. Does someone this sexy get caught wearing flats? I think not. See how awe inspiring my posture is? That’s because “dating me” is sophisticated. She spends her mornings drinking expertly crafted espressos. She never drinks instant coffee. That’s hidden in the cupboard where my date can’t see it.
“Dating me” serves lunch to Bach’s Cello Suite. She’s like a weirdly polite swan who talks about politics a lot. “Real me” doesn’t give enough fucks to make space for that in a conversation that should rightly be reserved for counting the number of words there are for ‘zombie’ in The Walking Dead.
Okay, fine, so “dating me” only exists in my imagination. I’m a clumsy-ass woman who says ‘fuck’ a lot and lets the pot boil over. I’m the type who has toothpaste permanently spilled on her clothes and who sits on the floor sometimes. If you’re coming by for lunch, be aware that there will be water spilled down my cleavage and really embarrassing books on the shelf.
I once went out with a dude who was the male version of “dating me”. He took a (full) coke can out of my hand and threw it in the bin because carrying it on a walk was “inelegant.” If that’s the type of man I’m missing out on by being this awkward, thank fuck my mother brought me up to be “real me”.