Dating sober is the worst thing in the world.
Since I made the responsible decision to get a fake I.D.
at 17-years-old so I didn’t have to drink my friend’s parent’s shitty wine or
steal PBR from the poor liquor store owners, 90% of my interaction with the
opposite sex has involved my sassy sidekick, booze. With her by my side I don’t
care if I make a rape joke and no one laughs. I only feel slightly shamed when
I have sexual encounters with strangers at my brother’s annual Halloween party
every year. Who says no to a dude dressed as Pokey with a dick hole
conveniently cut out of the costume? Or the guy that every girl wanted to bone
in high school who’s now dressed as Wayne from Wayne’s World wearing the most
unfortunate man wig I’ve ever seen? I’m an American. Also, women’s rights and
feminism and shit. I refuse to go anywhere on a date that doesn’t have alcohol. Oh you want to go bowling? Perfect because I can order a pitcher of beer and then down a drink while you’re being cute and purchasing nachos or some other bullshit I don’t care about. There’s a movie you want to see? Awesome, I can put a bottle of wine in my purse and uncork it right when people stop texting and the silence is deafening and then I’m judged. Fuck ya’all, you know you’re just jealous you didn’t bring your bottle too. Also, family in the front, I can see your swag from KFC that smells delicious and would probably go really great with this Sauvignon Blanc. Mind your business. Oh you want to go to a bar? Fantastic. We’ll look weird if we don’t do body shots and sexually harass the server. When in Rome...
I consider a date successful if my date went from a
quasi-interesting, semi-employed, 5 on the attractive scale to a super funny,
intelligent rocket surgeon, equal in quirky hotness to Benedict Cumberbatch.
Trust me, this is entirely possible after 5-7 vodka tonics. Also it’s still a
win if I don’t entirely remember his Christian name and only referred to him as
“plaid” but am fully aware that he wears dark grey boxer briefs and has either
a third nipple or poorly placed mole. I mean what’s a name anyway? Fuck the
government.
Nonetheless, since I had recently acquired the nickname
of “One date wonder” (fuck you Erick) I thought I must be doing this whole
dating thing incorrectly. I mean I don’t want to waste my time or anyone
else’s, but I do think sometimes I, and the dudes I meet, make a terrible first
impression so a second date is kind of necessary to decide if we want to pass
out near each other at some point in the future. I decided that unless a date
is TERRIBLE (I’m referring to you, dude that made me hear about everyone he’s
ever penetrated in his entire life) I’m willing to take my Ativan and give it
one more try.
So last week I met a dude for a drink after work. I’m
not sure why he even wanted to meet up with me after I couldn’t maintain
sobriety long enough to make solid plans for a few weeks. Those mother fucking
two day hangovers that start the day you turn 27 are ruining my life. But
finally plans were made, I had no excuse not to go since the bar was literally
5 minutes from my work and my BAC was so low I would die soon if I didn’t take
my medicine (vodka). I’m not going to lie, this whole dating shit was really
bringing me down. I figured at the very least I could drink heavily and then go
die on someone’s couch and buy new clothes for work at Target in the morning. I’m
a planner.
I get to the bar and am pleasantly surprised that this
guy was attractive. Also he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt with stupid shit that’s
supposed to be funny written on it or dad jeans or flip flops or a polo. All
wins for me because these fashion choices by dudes ruin my life. If I can put
on a dress and wear knee high boots and get hair ripped off my labia, you can
sure as shit put on real shoes. Feminism. The initial disappointment that he wasn’t a sassy, older black woman catfishing me waned and I was becoming slightly less pessimistic. I ordered my vodka tonic and switched on the charm.
For some reason I end up on dates or dating either the male version of Lindsay Lohan, or someone who doesn’t really drink at all. There is not a male version of drunk me. My friend recently described my new party style as this: “You rage super hard for 2-3 hours and you kill it. Then you just die. You’re a corpse and you never resurrect.” It must be the Norwegian in me. If someone has described you in these exact words and you are 68% employed and own a vehicle, email me. I need to know about you.
Back to my date. So after my first drink I noticed my
date was no longer drinking. Dilemma. Is he waiting it out to see how drunk
I’ll get to decide how DTF I am? Is he super over this situation and being
polite so he can bail when I’m done with my drink? Is it 1:45 already? Am I
DTF? So many fucking questions. This is why I am a complete spaz. This is the
commentary in my brain constantly. Now you know about it and maybe you’ll
understand why I’m making weird faces a lot and squirming uncomfortably. So I
did something weird. I ordered a beer and drank it slowly. I KNOW. MIND
EXPLOSION. Was that the sound of the world ending? I hope Emma Watson runs in
here swinging an ax at me and being all cute and British. (If you don’t get
what movie I’m referencing I’m disappointed in you) But seriously, I remembered
everything and was able to repeat pertinent information back to my friends. I,
just, can’t.
Turns out, I can be somewhat acceptable on a first date
sober. Second date? No fucking way. On the second date I had one beer. ONE
BEER. I need you to read that out loud. Take it all in, like a shiv shoved up
your ass in prison. Feels uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, right? Too
far? I don’t give a shit. I basically developed Asperger’s. I no longer
understood social cues like I just talked about something it’s your turn now. I
had to give my undivided attention to every single dog or person that walked
by. I knew I was being a nightmare but I couldn’t fix it. The more I tried to
not be a freak of nature, the more awkward I was. You might think I’m
exaggerating but when the dude went inside for a minute one of the servers came
up to me and gave me pity face and asked if I was okay and said at least twice,
“Can I get you a drink? You look like you need a drink.” Yo, Judge Judy, back
the fuck up! My awkwardness was palpable.
On my drive home I immediately called my friend to tell
her that I was an insane person and shouldn’t be allowed in public. Her take is
that when you’re sober dating you have to actually decide how you feel about
the person sitting across from you. Feelings? Fuck that. I hate those things.
But she’s right. You don’t have the booze barrier to make them more interesting
or provide an iron curtain so no one has any emotions. It’s real life. (Dear
drunk life, I miss you. Even when you pushed me down the stairs and told me I
was unlovable. I know you were only trying to make me a stronger person. Call
me.) Usually I just sit back and let the dude decide. If he’s into it and he’s
persistent I’ll go along with it. If he’s not I’ll accept it and move on.
Now that I actually have to be an adult and decide what
I want it’s foreign. I actually don’t even know what qualities I want in a
person. Is that sad? Don’t answer that because I know it is. This is not a
break up letter to booze. I will never give up on her. I’m just not going to
expect her to make all my decisions and save me from growing up. I will
definitely keep her around for those last minute decisions where I know what I
want to do but need a little nudge in the wrong (but so right) direction. I
also still plan on continuing my 2-3 hour rages and then death on the weekends.
But I’m going to try to figure out what/who/why/how the fuck I’m doing with my
life.
Note: If this does not work out you can find me at The
Federal Bar in downtown Long Beach spilling drinks on the floor and trying to
clean it up because they really hate when you do that. Cheers bitches.
No comments:
Post a Comment