A Woman’s Plea
Please take me on a date. Like, a real one. Not one that later I will question if it was a pseudo-date, or merely you making sure I actually have two ears and two legs and one nose. One where other people will see us and instantly be able to recognize between your look of sheer terror at the thought of not entertaining me enough, and my full face of make-up that we’re both hoping at some point in the near future to wind up horizontal and We Are On A Date because of this. It doesn’t really matter where you take me— I mean, as long as they serve beer, you could take me to a cockfight (not a euphemism), and I would still try to make sparkling conversation and validate your choice of venue. The key to impressing me is to ask me out in the first place, because, let’s be honest here, from there, it’s all downhill. Even if we were to go on a second date, or a sixth date, or end up together for two years, sooner or later, you will discover how I always leave an inch of drink left in my cups in the fridge, which I never plan on finishing, and I will discover, at some point, your love for either 80’s power ballads or anime porn. It will never be as new and exciting as that first real date, ever again.
Please take me on a date. If we go out to eat, please pay for my meal. It’s not that I’m a gold-digger; it’s just that I’ve run out of edible combinations for the pickles, peanut butter, and fiber crackers that make up the remains of my kitchen cupboards at home. If I plan the date, or suggest eating while we’re out, it’s because I’m hungry at that moment, and I promise that I will pay for whatever I get, be it Starbucks, or lo mien. But if you’re the genius who came up with the idea of going to that crazy-expense new sushi place because it boasts aphrodisiac sea creatures and the “romantic atmosphere” you hope will get yourself laid, please pay for my meal. I signed on for a date, not a second mortgage.
Please take me on a date. I promise to act like a normal human being. I will not ask you if you can do the M.C Hammer dance, because I really want the groom at my wedding to be able to do it with his groomsmen while wearing Stormtrooper helmets. I promise to stay off hot-button issues like politics, my lack of religion, and your pants. I promise to at least smile at your jokes, if not laugh at them, and only discuss things that I’m passionate about, like living in Italy and the Impressionist art period, so I light up from the inside and come to life, not things I’m passionate about, like sticking it to my ex and how I loved Mark Wahlberg even when he was Marky Mark. Especially in those magical white boxer-briefs. I promise to hold my fork the etiquette-class way, and not like I’m getting ready to spear your hand if you reach across to steal one of my fries. I promise to order more than the salad.
Please take me on a date. Make the first move at the end of the evening. Unless I’ve been blatantly yawning at you or texting through the entirety of our time together, it’s a pretty safe bet that I’m giving you the female air traffic control signs to align your lips with either my cheek, or if you’re feeling particularly dangerous, my own. Even if we don’t kiss goodbye because I am hacking up a lung and possibly my left kidney, and though you’re willing to swap cigarettes with me, you’re worried that your immune system will not be able to keep it’s shit together if it meets with my saliva, just know that I am wearing nice underwear. Though the chances of you actually seeing them at this juncture are slimmer than the chances of Nixon ever admitting to being the mastermind behind not only Watergate, but the Snuggie, too, just know that were we to somehow trip over a storm drain and a freak gust of hurricane wind were to rip our clothes off on the way down, and I landed on top of you…yes, these are from Victoria’s Secret.
- From SATCG