Being Dateless on Desperation Day
HERE it comes again. That day. That dreaded, tedious, monotonous day. Like an annual enema, celebrated by Hallmark with vomit-inducing cards and kilograms of last year’s Christmas chocolates re-melted into hearts. The day where the scent of desperation runs thick and fast, discernable even over the stench of cheap, decaying flowers and men drenched in cologne. I’m talking, of course, about Valentine’s Day.
A lot of women feel pressured to have a date for Valentine’s Day. I don’t really see why. Personally, if I had to choose between an awkward date with someone I didn’t really like who probably kissed like an alpaca, or spend the evening at home, alone, with a couple of bottles of wine, stuffing my face with chocolates and the batteries on full-charge, I know which one I would prefer.
It’s easy to get swept up in the hype of romantic crap and forget what first dates are actually like.
Awkward as fuck.
Let me tell you about a blind date I went on a few years back. To clarify, it wasn’t so much a ‘blind date’ in the traditional sense (meaning you haven’t yet met the person) rather, blind in the sense that I was blind drunk when I met the person (on the street, late at night) and had no recollection, whatsoever, of that person’s appearance, personality or countenance the following day. All I had was a text message from someone I vaguely remembered to be a tall, Irish man.
Now, there are two version of how I came to meet aforementioned tall, Irish man. The first is the version I remember. I was drinking with a group of uni friends after the annual journalism ball and found myself in need of cash (probably because I’d spent all mine on boos). I was informed there was an ATM outside the bar and across the road but when I asked if anyone wanted to come with, the reply was 'it’s just across the road, you’ll be fine’. The other version of this event, which I refuse to believe, is that several people offered to come with me but I said ‘nahhhhh, it’z jusss across da road, I’ll be back in freee minutes’.
Regardless of whose version is more historically accurate, (cough, mine), when I crossed the road I bumped (literally) into a tall, Irish man. He started saying some very charming and flattering things (as Irish men do) and then, lo-and-behold, some dude 10 metres away gets knocked out, and begins oozing blood from his head onto the side walk. I called triple O, and, when asked where I was, tried to sprint in a very short dress and ridiculously high heels to the nearest street sign only to fall flat on my ass in front of what had become a very large crowd of people. An hour and 45 missed calls later, I returned to the bar where my friends had begun writing my eulogy after the longest three minute trip to the ATM ever.
The next day I got a message from aforementioned tall, Irish man (apparently I had given him my number, which is impressive considering how drunk I was) asking me out on a date. But I couldn’t for the life of me remember what he looked like. It could have been anywhere on the spectrum from Colin Farrell to Donald Trump, I didn't know. So I did what any normal person would do. Agreed to it out of curiosity while concocting an elaborate escape plan should he turn out to be hideously ugly or a serial killer.
Fortunately, he turned out to be hot, so all was well that ended well and a valuable lesson was learnt about… something. Strangers maybe? Drinking too much? Having a plan of escape? I don’t know. Don’t wear ridiculously high heels… yes, I think that was it.
I haven’t really had many awkward dates, mainly because I don’t go on dates, but I did accidently sneeze-fart once while spooning with an ex-boyfriend on the couch (wasn’t an ex-boyfriend at the time). He laughed hysterically for about an hour and never let me live it down.
I also had to pee in a bucket in front of the same ex-boyfriend’s mum, shortly after meeting her for the first time. He was doing an eight-hour, 30km, ocean swim from Hamilton Island to Airlie Beach and I was on one of the support boats watching. It was in the middle of winter (when there were no stingers) and so my only options were; jump overboard and pee in the water and get hypothermia when I got out, hold it in for three more hours, or pee in a bucket on one of the boats. I chose the latter, and to this day, his former house mate still calls me bucket.