“It’s just a date.”, Joey says to me with equal amounts big brother shrewdness and logical person, “turn your nose up at the silly girl”, matter-of-factness. I grimaced.
It turns out, my friend Joey thinks I’m shallow and oppressed. I prefer to call it “picky”, mostly because shallow and oppressed sounds permanent, like a war wound. And yet, “picky” apparently doesn’t do my relationship woes any justice–according to Joey. Pfff.
To be clear, it’s never “just a date”. Prior to the date point, one must pass any number of laundry items on my proverbial checklist. The sun, the moon, all of the planets AND most of the stars in this galaxy have to align properly for me to feign even the slightest interest. And when it does, there is always the chance that I’ll change my mind. And so, therefore, it is never “just a date”. For me, Going out with someone–even someone I may almost like– apparently, is a monumental, life altering event. What? It’s not that way for you?
With that said, my “friend” (I use the term very loosely here) has decided that my “list” has got to go. It appears as though I’m supposed to broaden my dating horizons and date people I never actually considered before, think outside of my list, and blah, blah, and blah.
And so, my “friend” (pfff) challenged me to a social experiment he calls “it’s just a date”, where I must say a non-hesitant and resounding “yes!!!” to the first non-homeless, non- serial killer person who crosses my path and has the balls to ask me out. The more I ponder this, the more my stomach hurts.
There are only three main rules to this challenge:
1. He must be under 250 pounds.
2. He must be under 50 years old.
3. He must be over 25 years old.
That. is. all. I can use my own discretion as far as the serial killer, homeless person part, but aside from that–there are no rules. Well, sort of. To prove that I’ve followed through, the first date must be a group one with Joe and his girlfriend. So he can give the guy a good once over.
AAAAAND, to raise the stakes some–I can’t know the guy already and we have to meet in person–no online or social media hookups. It’s got to be pure, old fashioned *our eyes met across a crowded Wawa parking lot…* And the guy must ask ME out. It turns out only about 10% of the current world population DOES NOT have a shot to take me out on a date.
To cap it all up, if a guy I just met asks me out, even if he’s 5’2″, has no teeth, is 49 years old, has 12 kids that are also his cousins, wears his hair in a 20 foot tall spiky neon pink Mohawk, is 249 pounds and wears a rainbow moo moo– if he is not homeless OR an actual serial killer, I have to say: “Sure, I’d love to! When would you like to go? Let me text my “friend” Joe so we can set up the double date. What’s your name? Really? Wow, I’ve never met an actual Spartacus before. This should be fun!”
If only I had a reality show. This little dating outside the realm of my “list” would, most surely, be the stuff of legend.
I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this little gentleman’s challenge (pouting). I seem to simply looooooove social experiments. This will be my third this year. Plus, my
(non) efforts toward non-singledom have been so successful, I haven’t had _________ in over __________! Nor any meaningful ____________ in twice as long!!! Fill in your own blanks. I’m sure your answers will be hellified more interesting than my personal reality. But whatever.
With all my whining and bitching well articulated, I would also like to say that Joe is absolutely 100 million percent spot on with his challenging me. We fabulous girls of the truly diva variety have a lot of bullshit mucking up our relational lives. We create our fictitious Romeo in our heads and make him so perfect that any mere mortal just doesn’t measure up–even though the Romeo we put off the mortal for doesn’t exist at all. And probably (I’m just guessing out loud with a scathing undertone here), we miss out on a lot of really great guys who *gasp* may have every single thing we actually want AND need to find peace in our relationships. We simply skip over him because of that stupid little tick we have about 20 foot high neon pink Mohawks.
And so, however reluctantly, I’m going along with Joe’s challenge and trying a little practice what I preach medicine. I make no bones about saying that it’s going down really rocky as I swallow. But it’s an excellent exercise in looking past my bullshit to find the genuine love of my life. Besides, it’s just a social experiment (I keep telling myself) who’s to say the only folk who will bother to ask me out won’t all be utterly awesome? Who’s to say anyone will bother at all? Joe seems completely hell bent on the idea that I’ll have more offers than I’ll have days free.
So far, so good. I still have all my days free.
The moral of this story? No idea. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “it’s (never) just a date, get over yourself” blessings!! Love, -e-