I usually abhor first dates.
Admittedly, I’d only been on two of them, but I can tell you definitively that they are not for me.
The first one, I was fresh out of a relationship with my high school boyfriend. (We never actually dated. We spent the first four Valentine’s of our relationship sitting on the floor of my room looking at MySpace) and was utterly unprepared to enter the grown-up world.
The next date started with a crazy cat lady from Spain coming into the restaurant I work at and veritably talking my ear off for an hour about her new roommate: a drop dead gorgeous rock climber who owned his own business. Momentary delirium and my innate sense of adventure (read: obtuse lack of intuition) led me to actually give this woman my number (after she confirmed mine and the roommate’s star signs were in fact aligned just as she’d suspected) and agree to a lunch date the following day.
In case you’re wondering, that date was, in fact, the single most uncomfortable experience of my entire life, as the roommate turned out to be 44 and utterly undisturbed by the fact that I have yet to reach the legal drinking age.
So I chose to forsake such first dates, thinking they just were not for me, and set off becoming my own worst cock-block—a talent, it turns out, I have a natural knack for. Not only am I 20 years old living at home with my parents (a fact I regularly mention) but I am also an emphatic fan of NPR, talk about Terry Gross like we’re new best friends, and have a disproportionately low tolerance for sentences that begin with “Last night was so crazy man…” which puts me on par with your average leper in the 20-somethings dating pool. And I’m honestly okay with that.
The thing is, I actually like real food and conversation, two things that seem utterly at odds with the first date etiquette of talking about absolutely nothing while politely picking at salad.
Which brings me to my next point: I, at 20 years old, went on my third first date ever last night. With like, a man. And, while I don’t believe in signs (except okay maybe this one) we did eat at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, drive home on a scooter and discuss my two favorite topics: the possible physicality’s behind my favorite NPR correspondents and the merits of having parents as roommates. I haven’t even tried to sabotage it yet and, as it turns out, my usual scare tactics became actual topics of conversation last night.
It’s possible I’ve found someone as weird as I am who, if nothing else, will discuss the sexual orientation of Ira Glass with me and take me home to meet his parents if for no other reason than he lives with them and so has no other choice.
Editor: Lynn Hasselberger