Why I Hate Dating
Please, God. Don't make me do it.
I beg you, please, please Lord, I'll do anything but this. I'll … I'll be a good person from now on! I swear! I will start donating to the Salvos! I will give up my chocolate binging for the 40 Hour Famine! I will help elderly Mrs Patterson across the road! I'll even wear that frilly pink dress Aunt Martha gave me for Christmas!
Anything to spare me the torture of dating!
I can see this cruel and unusual form of punishment already forming in my head. And it all starts with the clothes.
I can just picture myself, a Saturday night from now, tearing apart my wardrobe in search for that perfect outfit. I will try on one outfit, then realise that the green shirt clashes horribly with the yellow skirt, so then I will opt for another, only to discover something wrong with it after I changed into it, and it will happen again, again and again. The depressingly familiar cycle of wishful thinking, trying it on, still hopeful, looking at the mirror, scream and repeat. It's enough to make anyone's head spin.
And I haven't even started on the shoes! Everybody knows that the most stunning outfit can be single-handedly destroyed by a mere pair of mismatching shoes. Knowing me, I will spend the entire evening before the date shopping for some drop-dead gorgeous heels, most likely settling on a $380 pair of luscious navy stilettos – ones that I know I will not be able to walk in. I will try, of course, but I can predict that in less than an hour, I'll be limping. I will valiantly attempt to hide it, walking ever so teensy steps and disguising my grimace of pain with a fake smile, but it will not be long before he'll stop and ask me what's wrong.
"These stupid shoes are killing me and if I don't take them off this very second I will die!" is what I will have liked to reply but I will not be able to.
Because if I say that, then he'll know that I bought these shoes especially for a date with him and that will just make him uncomfortable and pressured because then he will deduce that this date means a lot to me. It may even cause him to think that I'm not as wanted and popular as he initially thought I was because why else in the world would I spend a fortune on shoes just to be with him?
Instead I'll say ever so casually, "It's nothing darl. I just fell down the ladder earlier today when I was just – you know – rescuing a poor helpless little kitten stuck in a tree!" Then I'll smile through my teeth because I will feel bad for telling the first lie in our relationship.
Being the nice guy he is, he will smile back and reach out to hold my hand comfortingly.
I will absolutely freak.
I hate holding hands because I am never sure of what I am meant to do. I mean, if I take his hand for a while and then pull mine away, will he take offence and think I am not really that into him? Or should I just keep it there and – while I'm at it – wiggle my fingers around a bit? Or is that too direct? What if my nose happens to be itchy and I take my hand away to scratch it but I don't replace it back – will he take that as a sign of rejection? Or will he be relieved even Worse still, what if my hand is sweaty and clammy! Will I have enough time to wipe it discretely on my dress before accepting his offer?!
I can see myself so immersed in my worries that we will be at the local pizzeria before I realise, and as we wait to be served, we will have to talk. That's the awkward part of any date: finding a suitable topic of conservation. Of course, I will have liked to start off with "Do you like me?" followed by a deeper "How much do you like me?" and an accusing "You're not just going out with me out of pity right?" to top it all off. But, no, etiquette dictates that we will talk about useless rubbish, like music and movies, for the next half hour while we test our patience with the catering service. But what happens if he tells me that his favourite band of all time is fEvA – and I have never heard of it in my life. Will I pretend and say I utterly adore it too? You bet I will. Only I can also bet that I will say something stupid a second later that will unmistakably announce my oblivion to the existence of fEvA.
"Yes, I love fEvA," I will declare, nodding my head in the very picture of enthusiasm. "Their latest album is my favourite."
He will look at me peculiarly and narrow his eyes. "Umm… fEvA has only released one album."
I will give "red" a whole new definition.
But it doesn't matter if we have conflicting music tastes, because everybody knows that the deciding factor on the longevity of any relationship is pizza toppings. If a couple shares the same pizza topping preferences, then they will be bound to make the gold. So if he chooses a hawaiian with extra pineapples, I will have to spend the rest of the evening discretely picking off the offending pieces of fruit and, most probably, the rest of the night crying about picking the wrong guy again! Then I'll become distracted in our conversations, either reflecting on how much of a liar and hypocrite I am or trying to hide the discarded pineapples under the table with my foot. And because my eyes have a tendency of glazing over when I'm distracted, he'll immediately realise that something's amiss. It won't be long before he starts to frown and work himself up in a fit of anxiety thinking that I don't really like him. He'll be right.
But what happens if he orders a meat-lovers with barbeque sauce instead? And as we wait for the pizza to be made, he tells me that he reckons Brimestone is the best darn band in history? That'll be a guy I can really fall for.
And that will terrify me the most.
Just an idea I came up with after doing this feminism unit for English. So what do you think? Utterly insane? I won't know unless you review!
p.s. If you have time, also check out my other stories, esp. "Dare To Trust" which has been nominated for a SKOW award!