I have a date tonight. A first one. A blind one. And I am sitting in an emotional blender trying to feel OK about it. I do not feel OK about it. I feel faintly thrilled about it, yet, simultaneously, deeply troubled and rather low. Isn’t it bound to be disappointing or hurtful or both? Won’t all the past disenchantments concertina up on me to just press on the vivid bruise of aloneness? But, because fortune favours the brave and because most things are survivable I’ll turn up. Here is what I’m thinking:
I have to wear heels because you have to wear heels on an evening first date because you just do. Or it looks as though you’re not taking it seriously. Even though I buggered my knee on a run trying to get slinky for the first date and so I’m even wobblier than usual and the street we are meeting on is cobbled. Hey ho. Oh God.
I need to leave enough time to do my make-up twice because I am going to attempt a lot of black eyeliner. Nothing as artful as a smoky eye but smudgy black. There is every chance this could go wrong.
Lipstick? Or will I look like a newsreader?
Ponytail? Or will I look like a farmhand?
Tight or loose or tight or loose. There is nothing in between.
How will I not break out into a monumental nervous sweat the moment I walk into the bar? How?
Should I take a beta blocker?
I won’t sleep with him.
What if he does?
Kiss hello? Handshake? Hug? Jesus.
There is something wrong with me which is why I am alone and he will spot it.
What is wrong with him? Why is he single?
Actually maybe I’ll be cute and unthreatening in flat sandals. *googles weather* Hmmm. 17 degrees. Hmmm.
God help him.