Dating is hard. I’ve confirmed this after every single date I have ever had, with my friend Elisa over numerous glasses of wine. The conversations we’ve had about this are great:
“Sabs, I just don’t understand what’s wrong with men!” Elisa slurs.
“Don’t worry, baby, I don’t think they understand themselves,” I slur back, the call of the wild.
“I mean, we’re both pretty, intelligent, funny, entertaining, fun… What the fuck is wrong with them?”
“Yeah! What is wrong with them? We’re perfect!” I say through wine stained lips.
“Sabs, I’ve figured out why guys never want anything serious.”
“What?” I’m still pretty hungover from the four bottles of wined previously consumed, therefore my eyes at this point won’t open but halfway.
“Because they don’t think about the future!”
This is when I sort of look at her strangely and go back to sleep, or back to studying, or back to doing whatever I’m supposed to be doing. This happens every two or so weeks.
Wow, that little anecdote was so unexpected. I think I’ll just leave it here for you (again, who?) to enjoy, and for Elisa to get super excited because I’ve never mentioned her before.
Back to the point, the entire process of dating just reminds me why I retreat back into that same unhealthy relationship over and over and over and over and over. I think I’d prefer anything over the young adult meat market, including but not limited to: ripping out my own nails, performing plastic surgery on myself, burning polyester clothes into my skin, pouring a vat of boiling oil over myself like they pour gatorade on athletes after they win, etc.
Why would I rather inflict pain on myself then date?
The Process of Going on a Date:
18:30- I start getting ready. Should I wear make up? Or should I just play it natural? I’ll just put natural looking make up on. Oh wait, shit, that’s way too much high lighter, I look like a pornstar’s bedazzled hooch. Should I wear a skirt or jeans? Mom always says that guys like really feminine girls. Shit, there’s nothing in my closet that isn’t in the grayscale.
20:00 (yes, it takes me an hour and a half to get ready, don’t judge)- He said he would be here at eight. It’s eight. He’s not here. I got stood up, I’m pacing around the entrance of my house. No, Sabrina, calm down. He’s probably just a few minutes late. Fashionably late. He’s a fashionable person. When was the last time you dated a fashionable guy? I continue having this conversation with myself.
20:13- He picks me up. I’m in his car. I think to myself, You know, if he wanted to kidnap me, this would be the best time to do it. I look at him slyly, trying to think of escape plans in case the entire thing does go sour. He’s driving, completely unaware of how awkward I actually am. I try making small talk; clearly he’s not a multi tasker. I figure I should just let him drive, in silence. I’m fiddling with my seatbelt, thinking it might be better to leave it off in case I have to jump out of the car. The car is making the weird seatbelt noise; I continue to avoid eye contact as I put it on. He still hasn’t noticed that I exist.
20:38- We get to the bar. I’m starving. It’s dinner time, but I don’t see him looking at the food menu. I’m thinking, Girls aren’t supposed to eat, because if we eat, we have to poop, and girls can’t poop. Wait, what? I look over to see if any feminists can read my thoughts and then I proceed to plan how to make a human shield out of my date.
20:46-“So, yeah, I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s time to completely discard the leftist approach, because it’s logical implications add up to an obvious deathwish.” Oh shit, I said something philosophical. He’s looking at me funny. He doesn’t understand what I’ve just said. Maybe if I explain it to him… “What I mean by this is that if you study morality from a metaphysical and epistemological point of view, which you should, because all knowledge is contextual, then you realize how dumb these theories are.” Oh wait, I’ve completely lost him. He’s reaching for the phone. I must save this date! SuperSabri to the rescue! “So, anyways, I really love your shirt,” Who even says this? Why did you say this? Well, no going back now. You have to touch his arm to save that alarmingly terrible compliment. Sabrina touch his arm. Don’t be awkward, just do it casually and then ask him if he works out. Wait, what if he says he doesn’t and you make him feel embarrassed about it? Don’t say anything anyways. You’re not in some cheap porno. What is with you today and all the porno references? Shit! Abort the touch! Abort the touch! Oh no…
21:24- Wow, I’m hungry. My stomach rumbles, so I cough loudly to cover it up. He asks me if I want to order anything to eat. Remember food equals poop and if you eat food it will remind him of poop. You will remind him of poop! Do you want anyone to ever associate you with poop? No! Of course not! You do not equal poop! Wow, this is a whole new take on anorexia. I laugh quietly to myself, because I know that I’m hilarious. The guy is looking at me, “What’s so funny?” “Umm… Nothing really. Just something you said reminded me of something else that makes me laugh sometimes.” He continues talking about something I’m clearly not interested. I hold a mental debate about anorexia and plus sized models. I’m imagining different sized barbies having this debate at a conference or panel type situation, the whole thing is being recorded by some cameramen Kens, also of different sizes.
22:17- I start feeling a little dizzy, These mojitos are strong… Strong? Stronger than yesterdayyyyy! Sabrina, get a hold of yourself. I’d like to get drunker. No you wouldn’t. Yes I would. You can’t tell me what to do! I’m the only person that can tell you what to do! You’re not even a person! Yes, because we both share this person! Wait, who are you? Well, who are you? Which one of us is me? “And so that’s when I couldn’t believe that I had done that, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah blah.” What is he going on about? Sabrina pay attention to him! You’re supposed to pay attention. Oh crap, he’s looking at me expecting a response. Brain, do that thing where you repeat the last few words of his last sentence in the form of a question, that’s what Mom does! “Oh so, you’re like really into snowboarding. That’s really cool. I actually snowboard myself,” Way to keep your cool, Sabs. “Um, do you mean wakeboarding?” Fuckity fuck, I just can’t do anything right today, “Yes! Wakeboarding! I do that too, occasionally, on occasion, sometimes… You know, my friends are really into wakeboarding, well, some of them, not all of them, some of them are pretty bad at it. You know that reminds me of the time…” (I start telling him a really stupid anecdote he has no active interest in).
22:57- “Well, it’s getting really late! I should go in. I have school tomorrow.” I’m already in front of my apartment. Why did he drop me off? I could have said no to the ride. Oh sweet jesus, he thinks he’s going to get laid. Well is he? He’s cute, that’s a given, but you can’t go giving away your chops to every cute guy, because by the end of the day there ain’t gon’ be no meat left to sell at the market. Shit, that was a terrible thing to think, in many ways. Oh, wait, he’s going in for the kiss. Don’t contort your mouth. Just relax. You’ve done the kissing thing a bunch of times. Just a goodnight kiss. Don’t worry. You’ve got this, girl. Is it me or is he a terrible kisser? Why is he using so much tongue? Oh god my mouth hurts! Huh, that’s sort of pleasant? Oh wait, no it’s not! No it’s not! Retreat! Retreat! Retreat! “Well, thank you so much for the drinks! I had a great time!” I rush inside to wrap myself into a blanket burrito.
23:31- Wait? Did I actually tell him I went through a Jedi phase in which I wore my brothers clothes? Oh my god! I told him the poop story! I told him that I confused poop for raisins when I was a little girl! Why did I tell him that story? Because I told him I hate little kids because they are extremely chaotic. I tried so hard to avoid being associated with poop! Why did I say that? Why! He was so hot, too. Why would I tell a hot guy the poop story? At least it wasn’t that embarrassing. I mean, he confessed to me he went through a magic phase. Oh fuck fuckity fuck, he was super nice about my weirdness and I laughed at his magic phase. But I called it cute. Shit, that might be worse. Oh no. Oh god. What have I done? What in Rand’s name have I done?
I’m told that eventually I will find someone who loves all my “cute” quirks, because that is the definition of 21st Century Hipster Loving. In my experience, I sort of grow on people, which is why I’ve completely given up on the dating thing (talk to me again in two weeks). I even tried Tinder, which was a terrible idea; Tinder is a terrible place fueled by the broken dreams of little girls. Does this mean there is no hope for girls such as myself? Why yes, yes it does mean that precisely. I am in no place to give anyone dating advice or information. All I can say is, in the Steven Tyler raspy voice that I get when I smoke a pack a day, “Dream on.”