Let’s call the whole thing off.
The last date I went on was something I was so unprepared for, that I didn’t even know it was a date.
This time, when I was getting the vibes of possible date-ish-ness, I decided to acknowledge the idea that it was, most likely, a date.
We did the whole “chat-food-terrible movie” thing, and then we went to a poetry slam.
My version of “Embracing the Date-ish-ness” apparently means “Drag Potential Date To a Poetry Slam In Order To Explain The Ten Reasons I Am Un-Date-Able“.
Which…actually went shockingly well.
I was really expecting *SIGNIFICANTLY* more awkward after me pretty much being like “Yeah, hey, I HATE dating.”
(Also, does anyone *like* dating? Because it seems really, really awful to me. Like “I’m here because I think you’re cool and this would probably be fun except for the whole part where dating is TERRIBLE and what’s expected, and I don’t even know if this is a date, is this a date? How much of this do I have to pay for? If I say no will you never speak to me again? I’m really never going to sleep with you and I really don’t want your tongue in my mouth and when we get coffee can we actually just be getting coffee please? Plus, everything I know about dating I learned from watching the Disney Channel and/or Lifetime Original movies, so I’m not sure how many freebees I get before there are “expectations” but I will NEVER fill those. Probably. And why can’t we just be friends? Friends are AWESOME. Friends are the best things ever. Friends are SO MUCH BETTER than “Friends With Culturally Mandated Baggage”, which is essentially what dating seems to be to me. Why do we do that? Seriously? WHY IS THAT A THING?)
So, the date went shockingly well.
(I still came to the conclusion that next time I’m face-to-face with Date that there will the “Let’s Be Friends” chat, but y’know. Whatevs.)
However, a few days later, I run into the room-mate of Date. Room-mate says “Yeah. It was just hanging out, and then you called it a date, and then suddenly it became a date.”
For about eleven minutes and thirty-four seconds, too. There may have been some hiding-behind-a-hat, trying-to-melt-under-the-table that happened as well.
In case you were wondering, when you look up “opposite of smooth” you’ll find a picture of me.