I can totally relate to the mom in Home Movies, that great Adult Swim cartoon from years ago. Why bother getting all dressed up for a date? WHY BOTHER?
I have a “date” this morning. It is of a relatively promising nature, in that OK Cupid has declared us to be 96% compatible and we have amazing emails. In my experience, that means that we will have absolutely no chemistry whatsoever. There seems to be an inverse correlation between the awesomeness of emails and awesomeness of actual interactions. I probably ought to go out with the next illiterate fuck that just says he wants to fuck. May well be Prince Charming.
This guy seems pretty amazing though, and if that’s the case, you probably won’t hear another word about him. (Believe it or not, I do keep my private life private, so that I can keep people in it!)
When I was younger, I used to put a lot of energy into figuring out what to wear, to look just perfect. Then I was married forever. When I started dating again, the thought of getting all dolled-up just didn’t work for me. I mean, I was no schlump, but I didn’t want to sell this tightly wrapped package, only to unravel into a heap of reality in front of a horrified onlooker.
What if it went really well and we wound up getting all nekkid? If I’d been sporting a Wonder Bra, the last thing in the world I need to see is the look of disappointment when my previously perky double Cs unfold before his eyes into double A’s pointed down to my appendectomy scar. Or spend a crazy night and wake up in the morning looking like a raccoon with eye make-up all over my face.
My ex-husband used to always say that he’d never date a woman he couldn’t get wet. I liked that – no women whose make-up will run or clothes will get ruined if caught in a rain storm. Because what could be better than spontaneously dancing in a rain storm. (And yes, I caught the double entendre there too, and it’s just as important.)
I decided long ago to go au natural. My general theory is to start with the worst, and if he likes it, then it’s nothing but pleasant surprises when he starts discovering the primping and the costumes and the she-bang that I save for those who have already bought the whole package. For what it’s worth, I honestly believe that at my worst, I’m pretty amazing, so it’s not like I’m selling a moldy loaf. But I am old enough to know that spending loads of time trying to package something for sale is a surefire way to feel like shit when no one buys it. But being “just me,” and having there not be chemistry, even at my most genuine? That I can accept. Chemistry can’t be taken personally any more than weather can.
So, coffee, this morning. I told him that I’ll be coming straight from the gym. Jokingly told him that if he was lucky, I’d even shower. His response? “Cool. Strong woman, freshly worked out? Delish.” This is a good response, really. So ya, first meeting, fresh from the gym.
It’s gotta be better than the time that I made some poor guy run stairs with me.
These first dates are like boot camp, in a way. It’s a tricky beginning, but only gets better from there. That seems better than making it all seem perfect, only to get in there and find out it is, well, a moldy loaf.