- EDEN -
I can do this.
I've been on first dates before.
I'm a desirable person worthy of love and intimacy.
I've had sex with someone new for the first time before.
Why should this be any different?
Not that I'm going to be actively trying to have sex with this guy tonight. I barely know him beyond some words shared back and forth via text. I haven't even heard his voice.
I swear I’ve changed my outfit a thousand times this afternoon trying to figure out which set of clothes is appropriate for a first date, and which gives off the best ‘I’m a confident woman and am dressing this way for me, not you’ energy. I don’t want to go into this new dating venture trying to fill a void that actually doesn’t exist. Any efforts I make for a date are being made almost exclusively for me because I want to, not because I’m trying to impress anyone. Those days for me are long gone, and I’d rather be myself and have someone find themselves interested in me for who I am than someone I’m trying to be just to impress them.
I settled on my standard attire in the end -- denim shorts, a plain t-shirt, light cardigan, my Docs and the faintest hint of natural make-up. It’s basically what I wear every other day, and feels so much more comfortable than a few of the nicer dresses I tried on briefly in my search for what to wear. I feel like it captures who I am pretty well, and definitely helped alleviate some of the nerves I was feeling by not being in an outfit that I kept questioning or trying to make sit better because I wasn’t used to wearing it.
I made the decision to meet him at the restaurant instead of accepting his offer to pick me up, remembering my promise to my friends the other day that I would be careful. Keeping a mode of transportation handy in case I needed to make a swift getaway and not giving out my home address seemed like me holding myself accountable to that promise.
I don’t think he was overly enthused about the idea, but agreed to meet me there all the same. We happened to pull up in the carpark around the same time, and when we both got out of our respective cars and moved towards each other, my whole body started to panic. Even more so when he immediately leaned in for a kiss, whereas I was about to proffer my hand for a shake.
Dude, I don’t know you. Don’t assume I want to kiss you on first meeting. It’s creepy, but clearly he wasn’t picking up on how uncomfortable I was by it. Nor was he aware that I wasn’t at all agreeable to him placing his hand on the small of my back as we turned and walked in the direction of the restaurant.
“I’m glad I didn’t go the fancier option and actually wear slacks and a shirt given you clearly dressed down too,” he said, looking me up and down and making me feel so judged, and not in a good way. I actually thought I looked nice. Neat casual, but nowhere near as ‘dressed down’ as he’s making me out to be. I even accessorised with a large crystal macrame necklace and giant gold hoops to fancy it all up a little, and it’s not like what I’m wearing is at all cheap. My shoes cost a couple hundred dollars when I bought them, my shorts are Levi’s and the t-shirt and cardigan are small-run, handmade items from a local designer which weren’t what I would consider inexpensive.
“Glad you approve,” I said sarcastically, already wanting to turn around and go home but forcing myself to stick this out and get over my nervous hurdles about dating again. Just like Mason said, I probably need to rip off the bandaid, remember how to do this again, and then hopefully it will stop being so nerve-wracking and uncomfortable.
We were seated at a table and given menus within no time, not that I needed one. I get the same thing every time I come here---vegetarian laksa with spring rolls as an entree. I’ve considered branching out a couple times and trying something else, but why mess with a good thing?
“Do you know what you feel like getting?” I asked, looking up at Cooper and trying to initiate some kind of conversation. I’m not sure he’s fabulous with multitasking considering he had to put his finger on the menu item he was reading to look up at me and answer. He clearly doesn’t have the talents of that guy from my neighbourhood who can walk, read, and cross the road safely without getting him and his dog hit by a car, all at the same time.
"I'm actually on a bit of a diet, so I'm wondering whether you're open to sharing a laksa?" he said, but surely I didn't hear him right.
Share a laksa?
Sharing a charcuterie board, I can understand. Buying a few different mains and rice, and grabbing smaller servings of a bit of everything, absolutely could work. Sharing a rich, decadent dessert that one would struggle to get through on their own, makes sense. Maybe even going halves in a parma or something if the serving sizes were known to be huge. But a soup? How would that even work? I eat half while it's still hot and then he eat the other half when it's lukewarm? There's no way that either one of us would be able to transfer half the contents from one bowl into another without making a mess.
"The servings here look huge," he continued when I didn't answer his question, looking around at the tables beside us, most of which were topped with laksas themselves. I'll grant him that the bowls here are quite big, but I can down one of these myself easily, and had planned to tonight because they're delicious. I've been looking forward to it all week since we set this date.
But instead of actually verbalising this, I stumbled and agreed, unsure whether it was the due to my nerves about being on my first date in a thousand years, or my confusion as to why someone would ever think to share a soup, especially on a date. And when he ordered it for us, noting that we would be sharing, I bowed my head in shame, until it snapped back up when he started referring to the young waitress as ‘darlin’.'
Now, I'm not against pet names. Trey and I never used them for some reason, but I'm not against them. What I am against is making a young woman you don't know, barely twenty years old if I had to guess her age, feel uncomfortable by speaking to her in such a casually intimate way that it can very easily be intimidating or patronising, which I can tell from a quick review of her body language is exactly how she feels. And the unsolicited touching of her arm when she made to leave just made it even worse.
I felt even more nauseated than when I was driving to the restaurant from home, filled with nerves and anticipation, and was about to say something about it not being entirely appropriate to behave in such a way when he started talking loudly to me about his work day, as if I needed to know all the details about how many toilets clogged with shit and showers filled with fallen hair muck he needed to clear out.
I should have listened to Wolfe and Mason’s warnings against plumbers.
The only solace amongst this total disaster of an evening is that it was short. For all the times I’ve come here to eat before, I know they take next to no time to prepare and deliver their meals to the table, so the discussion regarding drain gunk was thankfully cut short by the arrival of our one bowl of laksa to share, accompanied by two smaller bowls for us to divide our meal.
Apparently he felt like he was the most competent one of the two of us to be distributing the contents of our meal into each of the small bowls, which I found kind of ironic considering he seemed clumsy as hell just sitting down at the table, bumping his knee loudly on the underneath of the table and clinking his glass of water noisily against the bottle many times while we were waiting for the meal.
“Here you go,” he offered, handing me the tiny bowl with what appears to be one piece of broccoli, cauliflower, squash, zucchini, a couple noodles and maybe 30ml of soup. Were I at home, or even eating out here with anyone other than this idiot, I’d have polished off this meager serving in about four mouthfuls, but did my best to extend the time it took for me to empty my bowl to match his eating pace, using the word ‘eating’ loosely considering I believe more soup ended up gracing his side of the table than ended up in his mouth as he slurped noisily.
When he offered to pay the bill---a whopping thirteen dollars for our shared meal considering neither of us ordered drinks, me because I was too nervous to drink and him presumably because he was on a 'diet'---I almost laughed. He said it like it was a huge gesture. That I should feel thankful and appreciative of him doing something so extraordinary like paying for the equivalent of two extra large coffees.
I mean, of course I said thank you, after my insisting to pay half was shut down. Part of me was grateful he refused my offer because if I had to ask Citra---the manager here, who is currently processing his card payment with a questioning look between us---to halve the cost of the meal and process two lots of $6.50 payments, I would never have been able to show my face here again, and my stomach and taste buds would be so sorry for it.
But, oh my goddess, was I embarrassed all the same.
As was I seriously uncomfortable that when we left the restaurant and walked outside, he instantly grabbed my hand to hold. Again, I'm not opposed to public displays of affection, but I am opposed to someone presuming that this is what I want, and taking it as if he is entitled to do so without asking if I'm okay with that. I can't say in this instance that it's a mutual desire. The feel of his sweaty palm in my hand makes me so uncomfortable and kind of repulsed. Like I need to go home and wash my entire body clean of his presence this evening.
"So, my place is just around the corner... I thought maybe we could head back there, have a couple drinks?" he suggested coyly, insinuating that he didn't really have intentions of consuming any beverages at all.
Pulling my hand away from his to reach into my handbag for my car keys, I shut his offer down as nicely as I could, drawing on the strength received from Mason through his advice on how to from the other night. I'm not obligated to do anything with him I don't feel comfortable with, and I definitely can't say I've felt any sense of comfort with him all evening.
"Actually, I'm feeling tired and just want to head home tonight," I kind of lied. I'm guessing the exhaustion I am most definitely feeling at this point in time will die down as soon as I'm back in my car and moving far, far away from him.
I would have felt bad for so clearly disappointing him if this whole farcical date hadn’t been so humiliating from start to finish. It probably only lasted an hour in total, and even that was an hour too long in my opinion.
He texted me the next day, asking when I'm available to go out with him again because he had a really good time. And shy of telling him the only way that would happen is if fields of pigs grew wings and flew from here to dance on the rings of Saturn, I replied saying I was 'really busy over the next few weeks, so I'm not sure I'd have the time,' which wasn't a complete lie. Following Mason's advice, I'd already lined up a few other dates with people from before I went on this disastrous date, and had my fingers and toes crossed that they'd be nothing like this one.