I forgot one of the reasons I hate dating. All of the rejection somehow overshadowed what a commitment it is. And at this time of the year when my schedule is already stretched so thin, I wonder what the fuck was I thinking clicking like on any guy’s profile.
A million years ago, before dating apps — before most of us had mobile phones even — a guy asked me out on a date. I said yes. The plan was, he would call me (at my house) and we would take it from there (not much of a plan, sure, but we were in our 20s). That afternoon, I got to drinking with friends and we were having a good time and when it came time for me to leave to go wait by the phone I decided to … stay at the bar with my friends. They laughed and I pointed out, “I’m having fun. Why should I leave and go somewhere that might not be fun?” My friends laughed some more, we drank some more, and I am not quite sure what ever happened to that guy. I am sure he went on to be wildly successful and happy.
You are welcome, random dude.
The point is, I still hold true to this philosophy now. Some people say chicks before dicks, but I really mean it (though, I don’t know that I have ever said it and some of my friends have dicks so that would be what, dicks I know before dicks I don’t?). And this sort of philosophy is probably really tiresome to someone who is trying to get to know me. Oh, you literally can’t hang out any day this week because you already have plans with all your friends who would totally understand if you cancelled on them but you won’t because you don’t know me and don’t want to risk missing out on fun with them for what could be a lousy night with me. Got it. Thanks for the vote of confidence.
But, I have to date if I want to meet someone who will agree to be my committed life partner who never wants to marry me or move into my place. You can’t just jump to the third month of dating. You have to date someone for three fucking months. I know. I don’t think it is fair, either.
The other day, after a run, Claire mentioned she needed to put air in her tires and wished she had a boyfriend to do this. “I wish I could just say, ‘Hey, babe, my tires need air.’ And that would be it.”
I laughed and said, “I know. There should be a service. Not an escort service, just a service I can call when I need a boyfriend. I can call and say, ‘Hey, babe, I have to run to Ikea.’ (incidentally, I do need to run to Ikea and this has been worrying me some.) And he will know that means he has to help me load those boxes into the car. I don’t even need his help putting them together; just need his help at the store. It could be called Hey, Babe. And there doesn’t have to be sex,” I trailed off.
“No, we could offer home cooked meals.” Claire beamed. Claire loves to cook. I don’t know what I would offer.
And, yes, Claire can (and will) learn how to put air in her tires and sure, not all dudes know how to use a pressure gauge. But Claire doesn’t want to learn. And I have braved Ikea alone. It is scary. You can’t take your cart out to your car so you just have to leave all your purchases there by the curb and hope no one steals them.
Which, I realize now, shows I have more confidence in random Ikea customers than I do in the guys I am meeting on Hinge. There is probably another blog post in there somewhere.