I went on a date tonight. I went on a real live dinner date with a breathing man who had asked me out. I laughed at the right moments, I answered questions in a witty yet still self-deprecatingly human way — and all in all if I were to be given a grade by the Dean of Dates I sure as hell would have made his list and passed with flying colors. And you know what??? It was freakin’ exhausting. I am 25 years old and should be acting accordingly. I should probably be dancing on a bar somewhere or exiting a cab with my beaver hanging out for all of the Meatpacking District to accidentally glimpse. I shouldn’t have to even answer to a dean of dates. I should BE the Dean of Dates. But I can’t.
My sentiments on dating also apply to nights like New Years Eve or Halloween. I partake in the usual complaints on NYE like dreading the clusterfuck in any given city or the debacle over who I’m going to press my mouth against at midnight because I’m single and everyone at the party is taken or gay. On Halloween the grueling decision between dressing as a slutty cat or slutty bunny leaves me so debilitated I gain 10 pounds from stress that forces me to eat a Costco bag of candy corn and I end up at a party with a sheet over my head.
Boiled down, my avoidance of all these occasions is quite simply due to the fact that I’d rather be in my bed with a Man Booker Prize-winning novel and a box of pink wine. I’d like to be watching an ironic cartoon in my flannel pajamas with my dog, but I feel pressure. I don’t want to be a sex kitten at a club competing for the Guidos’ attention. I can’t stand first dates with men who picked me up at an underground hipster bar named “Home Sweet Home” …a place that looks more like the den of the guy from Silence of the Lambs than a place to get buzzed with over-privileged 20-somethings. And YET. Sometimes (most times) I feel totally alone in my anti young-fun-time sentiments. I just want to be 79 years old so I can watch Boy Meets World re-runs in peace and not feel guilty for wasting my perky breasts and small wrists on a gallon of ice cream and Ben Savage in all his 11-year-old prime. I AM A SQUARE. Maybe next time I’m tempted to accept an invitation to an overpriced Bavarian restaurant with a man I met while ironically dancing to the hits of the ‘80s like they’re our jam — like we can actually remember rocking out to Air Supply while pooping our diapers and teething – maybe then I’ll be more inclined to be myself and tell him “no.” I’ll tell him the truth: that I like my retainer too much and I have to take my fish oil pills by 10pm. That I’m halfway through Season 2 of Bob’s Burgers and even though I watched season 3 first, I’m still super invested and super busy.
But hey, if you’re reading this and any of the above sounds remotely attractive to you…hit me up. I have a fantastic list on goodreads.com we can chat about and a Hulu Plus membership I mooch from my homosexual ex-boyfriend.
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