Author Archives: thedateexpectations

0

Dear women, stay classy.

|

Contribution/Rant #1 by Mr. Man

I’ve been a fan of women since day one.  They’re the Ying to our male Yang.  And I’m all for female rights and equality.  It irks me when some meatheaded lunk objectifies a woman saying what a great ass she has and what he’d do to her, given the (unlikely) chance.  Personally I keep such oafs out of my life and leave the conversation when it starts to take a turn for the worse.  It’s gross, nasty and unnecessary.  You can compliment a woman without the need to tell the whole world of your salacious predilections.

Men like that belong in the previous century.  So why is it that I’m beginning to have more and more online interactions with females where some guy on the bus is a hot piece of ass and she’d totally do that?  Hello! Firstly, I’m talking to you and secondly, you’re doing the exact same thing women have complained about for eons.  Have the tables turned so much that women are picking up where men left off?  I hope not, as I have always thought females were classier with better manners than most of us men.  Who the hell walks into a cake shop and then tells whoever will listen about what they’re gonna do to that slice of carrot cake?  How it looks so sexy, all slathered in cream cheese – with its inviting looks begging for it to be licked, nibbled, bitten and finally swallowed whole into their greedy piehole.  No one, right?  Well, no one who wants a quick visit to the loony bin at least.  No one deserves to be objectified.  Keep it classy ladies and us guys will try our best too.

2

This is what they don’t tell you about one night stands.

|

What they don’t tell you about one night stands

They tell you your body is a temple.
They tell you it’s 2015 and you ought to sample the goods.
They tell you about the teasing and how to do it right – when to laugh and touch your hair.
They tell you that promiscuity is a label reserved strictly for her.
They tell you to always show up confident and prepared, foil in your purse.
They tell you to stop and think twice, while he gets his chestbumps and highfives.
They tell you that post coitus cuddles are a faux pas.
They tell you that if one key unlocks a bunch of locks, it’s a master key.
They tell you that if one lock can be opened by a bunch of keys, it’s damaged.
They tell you to skip the smalltalk and show yourself out.
They tell you it’s a trophy pride for him and a walk of shame for her.
They tell you to celebrate female empowerment and take control.
They tell you about the value of self-preservation and pride.
They tell you everything, and yet nothing at all.

What they don’t tell you is how pleasure is a goal in itself and that for just one night you don’t have to worry about the size of your stretch marks. They don’t tell you that life doesn’t always have to be about sticking to the plot and giving yourself away strictly in the most idyllic scenarios. They don’t tell you how the streetlights flicker just before the break of dawn. They don’t tell you how liberating it is exploring the playground, at least until you get sand kicked in your face or thrown off a swing; Which is when they don’t tell you about the panic attack that hits you the day after, when you least expect it as you brush your teeth in your pajamas, rinsing off the taste of last night’s kisses lingering uncomfortably on your tongue. They don’t tell you about the involuntary physical reactions that ensue; They don’t tell you how to drown out the deafening silence of your own breathing; or how to manage the horrible surge of pain that spills out of you in uncontrollable tears. They don’t tell you that when it’s all said and done, all you really desire are fingers that will twirl the stubborn curls of your tresses, a freckled clavicle to bury your imperfect face in, the beating of a heart that will calm your nerves, and a warm body that will defy and stay the night.

—–

image

0

On First Date Etiquette: Kisses, Handshakes or Hugs?

|

bampw-black-and-white-bsf-couple-vintage-Favim_com-213252_large

Let’s face it. First dates are potentially dicey. You’ve brazenly swiped each other and exchanged badinage online, but now the time has come for you to meet for the first time. You might choose to meet at a coffee place, a cocktail bar or even a restaurant, if you bask in high pressure situations.(Seriously. You’ll need at least 90 minutes for dinner and if you’re having a horrid time, there is no escaping!). Now, once that’s decided and as you patiently wait at your meeting spot trying to furiously recall if you’ve put on deodorant, you see your date walking towards you — How do you plan to break the first physical barrier? You have about 10 seconds to decide if 1) you’re going to shake their hand, 2) give them a hug, 3) lean in for a kiss or 4) in true millennial fashion, whip out an unorthodox hello such as a fist bump/ shoulder squeeze or simply stand there like a Botero sculpture.

I’m a fairly confident person but even I do not immediately go in for the sweeping Hollywood embrace. People are cautious and if there is anything I’ve learned over the years as a public relations practitioner, it is to always observe people’s body language, tread lightly and try to take their cue. That said, first impressions are crucial to me so I seize any given opportunity to break the touch barrier because it inevitably sets the tone for the rest of the evening.

The sense of touch is by far the most fascinating and necessary of the sensory system, and my favourite of the five senses because there’s something in us that is well beyond the reach of words or sounds — something that eludes and defies our pursuit to explain it. The sense of touch develops well before all other senses in embryos, and is the primary manner in which infants learn about their environment and bond with other people. Throughout life, we use our sense of touch to learn, protect ourselves, relate to others, and to experience pleasure. Sometimes, when I’m seated on a crowded bus and my shoulders or sides of my thighs brush up against the person seated next to me, (and after I’ve gotten over the initial wave of repulsion from involuntarily touching a complete stranger) there is a certain feeling of comfort that ensues.

So what exactly do I do when I meet a date for the first time? It really depends on what my body tells me to do along with my date’s body language. These days I either go in for a quick peck on the cheek, followed by a hug that neither lingers too long nor ends too quickly, or I do the European thing where I shake their hands and kiss both cheeks. I can’t remember the last time I simply shook my date’s hand on the first meeting. Dates that begin with a cold, prudish handshake in my opinion are doomed from the very beginning. The only exception for this is if you haven’t spent much time chatting with each other before meeting. But if you’re like me who enjoys taking the time to suss out your online matches before agreeing to go out, then there is absolutely no need for a business meeting greeting. And I’ll be honest here — call me a creeper but I am guilty of inching closer just to get a whiff of my date. I do it with discretion of course, no one needs to know I’m on a pheromone prowl — so far, so good. Once the touch barrier is broken for the first time, it depends entirely on the chemistry between my date and I for me to want to touch them again. It is not often that I feel inclined to do so, but if I do find myself wanting to touch their face or their hand or perhaps a gentle stroke of their arm, it’s a good indication that I am comfortable and fond of them, platonically so or otherwise.

That said, in a date setting, no one enjoys a gauche greeting but we’ve all been there. You can have all the confidence in the world, in the vessel that is your body but I’ve stopped counting the number of times I feel some kind of insane storm in my belly as I try to kiss someone’s cheek, mis-aim and plant my lips on their ear instead. There have also been proud moments in my life where my date would place his hand out so I could shake it but instead I go in for a hug resulting in an awkward hand-on-my-boob situation. It ain’t a pretty sight but it happens and there is no back pedalling out of that. And that’s okay. Because at the end of the day, we’re all a curious mixture of strength and fragility, diffidence and bravery. You just wear your best smile, open your heart and go with it while constantly reminding yourself to aim for the cheek and not the fucking ear next time.

How do you prefer to greet your first date?

0

On Open Relationships and Monogamy

|

1950s TWO WOMEN KISSING SINGLE MAN ON OPPOSITE CHEEKS HIS FACE COVERED WITH LIPSTICK MARKS2015 is proving to be a year of firsts for me. A good chunk of these experiences have been conscious, deliberate choices, to step out of my comfort zone, put myself in possibly uncomfortable situations and see if I can wiggle my way either comfortably into them or out of them. One of the more recent decisions I had made was to go out with someone in an open relationship. That sounds ambiguous. To be clear, the man I chose to go out on a date with had very specifically indicated on his profile that he was presently in an open relationship. I scoffed as I looked at the status, the same way I do when I read profiles with grammatical/spelling errors. So what possessed me to agree to head out and have a meal with someone who already kinda sorta belongs to someone else in a no strings attached relationship? I don’t even know what the fuck an open relationship is. Can it really be called a relationship if you’re allowed to see other people? There is a largely conservative part of me that finds this whole idea tainting the sanctity of a relationship between two people.

People struggle with commitment, I get it. But I’ve always been a strong advocate for monogamy. I have so much love to give but I’d like to smother one person at a time with love and affection. So, what does it mean to date someone in an open relationship? In a nutshell and thus far, you’re a time-filler, or at least it feels a lot like it. Do I mind it? I’m not sure yet. But I will tell you that it feels extremely odd sitting in a movie theatre with someone who holds your hand tightly like you’re the only person that matters; however, you know this person is not quite yours. He is yours, for that day but he belongs to someone else on another day. Or perhaps he belongs to no one at all. People create the relationship that works for them. Sharing has never been my strong suit. I always tell people there are two things in life I never share – my cake and my lovers. So why would I intentionally walk down this misty road?

I’m going to narrow my decision down to curiosity. Since our paths crossed, I have had burning questions on how such an arrangement, such a partnership works. And turns out, it’s not all that complicated. Thanks to the Internet, I have learnt that there have been a number of theories on people and monogamy.

‘Just because you have chosen to be a vegetarian, doesn’t mean that bacon stops smelling good.’ – Christopher Ryan

Christopher Ryan, a PhD of psychology and co-author of the book Sex at Dawn argues that “human sexuality has essentially evolved, until agriculture, as a way of maintaining and establishing the complex social networks that our ancestors were very good at.” He is also quick to note he is saying ancestors were promiscuous, but is not saying they were having sex with strangers, because, “There were no strangers.” Essentially according to him, we are sexual omnivores and that we all have closets we have to come out of.

He believes that monogamy is not hardwired in either gender. In fact, he says that sexual exclusivity came to be much later, with monogamy in many societies becoming the ideal way to raising a family. This, according to him was especially reinforced in the prudish/ highly conservative Victorian era. Ryan notes that while monogamy has now become the correct and proper way of life in many societies today where women and men are conditioned to believe that being faithful is the natural way, when in fact, our primal urges are simply to be promiscuous.

Deepak Chopra has said as well that it all boils down to ‘social revolution’ – born from the family structure and subsequent need for stability and security with a partner. The issue however is that these values tend to contradict basic human needs: for thrill, variety and on a primal level – to just get it on.

According to the National Science Foundation, only 3 to 5% of mammals are monogamous. Studies have found that sexual monogamy also relies on hormones and receptors that the brain releases. Humans’ receptors vary from person-to-person resulting in some people leaning more towards polyamory than others.

Perhaps, I’m not evolved enough, and trapped by my own inhibitions and conservatism. Or maybe I’m just too damn selfish to share the person I love with someone else. But Ryan is right. Bacon doesn’t stop smelling good. But since I have made the personal decision to be vegetarian, I will always choose brussel sprouts over bacon.

0

“I like the way you say Raspberries”

|

image

The internet dating pool is a playground. You meet all sorts of people. Typically, they’re engineers, bankers, accountants, pilots but every now and then, you speak to someone whose professional choice gets your full and undivided attention. “I’m sorry, but did you just say you’re a mathematician?” Sploosh. “A Human Rights specialist for the United Nations?” *fans self* or most recently, “You’re a chef? You mean a real one?”

 ***

Now if you know me well enough, you’d know that I have a massive weakness for food, nay, a deep and dark love affair with food. I’ve gone out with people who have actually mentioned things like “wow, you really like to eat, don’t you?” or “You talk a lot about food!” Why yes, I do, thank you very much. So imagine my absolute delight when I found out that I was talking to a chef. When you put two people who love food together at a table, some kind of magic happens. Immediately, you are given free rein to go into explicit detail about the creme bulee you once had at a tiny little French restaurant that still haunts you to date. Suddenly, you no longer sound bat shit crazy when you passionately talk about your lobbying for the ban of Vanilla essence and Matcha-based desserts. And just like that, everything’s on the table for discussion.

There are things people don’t tell you about dating a chef. They’re intense, wildly intense. It’s almost a little intimidating. They’re also constantly working – The kitchen is their mother, wife and mistress. They make this crystal clear, from the very beginning so if you date a chef, you find creative ways to fit into the crevices of their busy lives..

When I first started chatting with Mr Chef, I didn’t know what he did for a living. We had a heated discussion on what is the definitive American dessert – Pecan Pie or Carrot Cake. To which I said, I’m not a fan of neither but I can make a delicious pie and cake. He said he could too. But because I’m an arrogant asshole, I said “I’m sure you could but mine probably tastes better.” Of course, once I found out that he was a chef, I pretty much swallowed my words whole and felt a little embarrassed. “If I had known you were a chef, I wouldn’t have made that douchey comment about being a better baker,” I texted, sheepishly. To which he replied with much class, “I’m sure you’re still the better baker.” Sploosh.

I met Mr Chef for dinner a week later. We had been exchanging messages all week on discussion topics ranging from food (big fuckin’ surprise!) to films and Mr Chef’s life in the Big Apple before coming here. It’s very rare that I would agree to a dinner on a first date – feels like too much of a commitment, having to sit through an entire meal with a stranger. What if you’ve realised you’re having a terrible time by the time you’re done with your appetiser. You can’t just feign an emergency and run away. It’s 2015 – People know all the tricks there are in the books! So my strategy is just to go for a drink and see where the evening takes us. However, it seemed only right that two foodies (one professional, one amateur) should bond over a meal. Indian, it was – my choice, of course. I was 5 minutes late, something that always leaves me unnerved on a date. I like being early. Alas, traffic fucked me over. He politely waited outside the restaurant. I gave him a peck on the cheek and led him to what could quite possibly be the best Indian meal of his life. Unlikely. But I enjoy dishing out the hyperboles.

Statistically, it takes 1200 seconds, that’s 20 minutes, to decide if there is chemistry between two people. I might have over-generalised this statement but it is true to me. It takes me all in all 20 minutes to decide if there is a spark. I mean sure, we could all argue that chemistry can be built over time. The question here is, could this time be spent doing something else worthier?

Mr Chef was quick to inform me from the very beginning of the evening: “I just want to say that this is my resting face. It looks like I’m always annoyed or bored but I assure you that it has nothing to do with how I actually feel.” What an unfortunate resting face. I chortled, and we proceeded to commence selecting our food – He sank at ease into his seat and told me he trusted me to make the right selections off the menu. As we perused the menu, I wondered at what point was I going to feel this said chemistry, if at all. I looked up and sneaked a look at his face. Was there a facial feature that gave me the butterflies? Nope. What about his hands? Hmm. How does one find chemistry when it doesn’t want to be found?

We talked about dessert – easily one of my favourite conversation topics – and the varieties that we enjoyed baking and stuffing our faces with. The topic of tarts and pies came up. “I am rather selective when it comes to tarts. Lemon and raspberries are acceptable. I don’t understand the appeal of pumpkin.”

Mr Chef smiled and said, “I like the way you say Raspberries.”

Sixteen minutes in. Damn it. Where are you hiding, Chemistry? Show yourself!

It didn’t make an appearance that evening. We did however, have an enjoyable meal and comfortably discussed many things from useless trivia to David Sedaris to our shared love for Wes Anderson films.This comes easy for extroverts. I think I was hoping for chemistry. Chefs are supposed to be intense, passionate and ooze fiery sex appeal. False advertising, I say. This is what happens when you’ve watched too many episodes of Parts Unknown, lusting after Anthony Bourdain. I have no one to blame but myself.

I paid for dinner, like I usually do when I ask someone out. No big deal. Controversial decision, I hear from the people I speak to regarding bills on the first date. To go Dutch? Should the Guy pay? Should the Girl? This is perhaps best left for another entry. Mr Chef didn’t seem too pleased with the idea of me paying but he didn’t persist. I don’t like the drama. He walked me to the train station and we parted ways with a quick peck on the cheek.

“Shall we see each other again?”

“Sure, why not?” I said.

“Maybe we can watch a movie or something next time round. I have a crazy schedule. I never plan things so you’ll have to let me know.”

At this point I thought, “never plan anything? Well, that’s just lazy.”

I smiled very politely and said “I guess I’ll let you know then.”

Because 20 minutes was all I needed to figure out that there wasn’t going to be a second date. Maybe I’ll need to manage my expectations and find myself a pastry chef next. In the meantime, I suppose binging on re-runs of Parts Unknown and No Reservations, while fantasising about my life with Mr Bourdain will have to suffice. Sploosh.

4

The boy with the gift of laughter.

|

(Contribution)

I met a boy last weekend – A boy whose laughter sounded like the chimes of church bells. The first time he laughed, I felt a somersault deep in my belly. It was an entrancing laugh, the sort of laughter that could light up an entire room. Whoever said that a smile could light up a room didn’t get the best possible deal. A bellowing laugh that could illuminate any room – now that, that is something special.

“You’re funny,” he said.

“I like hearing you laugh. Looks like I might have to try and be funny all night,” I replied and meant every word of it.

Church bell chimes and somersaults all night. Sometimes that’s all you need to feel, on days where you feel like you couldn’t feel anything at all.

His gift of laughter was paired with incredibly beautiful eyes. Somersaults. I couldn’t quite say if they were gray or green. Somewhere in between and I loved that they were undefinable. It always makes me flutter when I can’t quite find the right words to define something. That mystery of it makes me feel like there are so many things and instances where there aren’t words in the lexicon to describe, perfectly. It makes me feel like there is so much I don’t know.

The eighth time I made him laugh, I recall vividly; He said he was shy and yet, he was quite the rebel – leaving his home in Brazil to travel the world and get paid for it. I called him a Unicorn and said shy rebels don’t exist. I gently poked his forehead with my index finger and jokingly and accusingly asked where he was hiding his horn. He laughed, touched my hand and kissed me. The church bells in my head chimed.

The boy whose laughter sounded like the chimes of church bells was sweet, affectionate and gentle. It would be unlikely that we would see other again. And yet, our paths had crossed for some reason. Later that evening, in bed, he rested his head on my chest and we talked about why we do the things we do. We talked about the people we love. We spoke of the places we love, the music we listen to and our fears.

“Am I too heavy for you?” he asked.

“No, I think you’re just fine.”

We made love later that evening. It was intimate in every sense of the word. I had never been with anyone who kissed every inch of my body or someone who wanted to look at me throughout the night, every line, scar, mole and fold on my unforgiving body. Somersaults.

“You have beautiful eyes”, I said.

“You have a beautiful smile” he replied as he kissed the tip of my nose.

Short of breath and exhausted, I sought to remember the moment. I attempted to memorize it all. The pursuit of pleasure often involves feeling good in the short-term. We take what we can get and continue to stay on the hedonic treadmill with the hopes that one day, we will reach a permanent state of eudaimonia. But this was different. It wasn’t just a one night stand. It was a feeling that was going to stick. And that the lesson to be learned from this was that I could be loved the way I deserved, even if only for one night. And it reminded me that physical affection is something I couldn’t do without, even if I tried. As we lay exhausted and wrapped around each other in bed, we enjoyed the silence. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was perfect. I strived to remember the moment.

We hugged and kissed for minutes after, remembering the features we like on each other’s faces.

“Never stop laughing, okay?” I demanded gently as I kissed him one last time, after clothing myself slowly, relishing every remaining moment of his company.

“Only if you never stop smiling,” the boy whispered.

Somersaults.

“Deal.”

The church bells chimed again, a little softer, almost as if it were far in the distance but I could still hear it. I can still hear it.

b55e1295438f2034f7dff6dc5e717d75

0

If Stanley Tucci Were Your Boyfriend

|

tucci-866x1024If Stanley Tucci Were Your Boyfriend. Such a good piece by Mallory Ortberg.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would never bother you about the fact that you own two clearly well-worn copies of both The Devil Wears Prada and Julie and Julia. If he knew you were going to have a particularly hard day at work, he’d call out “Gird your loins” after you as you left the apartment, because he would know how much that would mean to you.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your apartment would redecorate itself in only the finest and most luxurious of fabrics. The predominant colors would be Nantucket blue, slate grey, and the color of the sea before a storm.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, it would always be the second week of fall. The sun would never set before 8pm, but you would never sweat again.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your relationship would be two-thirds what he and Patricia Clarkson had in Easy A, and one-third what he and Meryl Streep had in Julie and Julia.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would occasionally turn to you, smile warmly, and call you “Champ,” while wearing a scarf.

He would also call you “Sport.” You would find it endearing and waggish and not in the least patronizing.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, the two of you would go dancing, but he’d never make a big deal out of it.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your dad would refer to him genially as “The Tooch.” “Come to the house this weekend, and bring The Tooch with you.”

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, you would own a good cheese knife. Nothing pretentious. You wouldn’t need a whole set. Just one. But it would be perfect, and you would never have trouble sliding Camembert pieces off of it. You would be the kind of person who invests in small, good, useful things. You would treat yourself with compassion, and you would never eat Cheetos in the shower.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would make pots of red sauce on the weekends, and make you taste all of them. He wouldn’t Bogart the kitchen, either, and he’d be more than just complimentary about your own (inevitably inferior) attempts at cooking. “No, it was extraordinary,” he’d insist after cleaning his plate. “Just extraordinary.” And there would be a light in his eyes that would let you believe him.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, Nora Ephron would still be alive somehow. She would have dinner with the two of you at least three nights a week.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, every single one of your friends would act like the guys on Friendsdid while Monica was dating Richard. “Your boyfriend is the coolest,” they’d tell you. You’d have to ask them to go do something else once in a while so the two of you could actually get some time to yourselves. “I’m sorry about those guys,” you’d say to Stanley Tucci, while he’d look intently at you and say “Don’t ever apologize to me on behalf of the people who love you.”

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, you would instantly become the kind of person who takes long, luxurious baths in a clean, bone-white tub.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would make excuses to run out and pick up a paper and buy you breakfast while he was out. “It’s nothing,” he’d say if you protested. “I don’t even remember how much it cost. I threw away the receipt. Stop asking.” If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would wear perfectly cut waffle-print shirts just while drinking coffee at your kitchen table, but your life together would be more meaningful than a collection of expensive fabrics and bougie breakfast foods. Your life together would be more meaningful than your life before.

0

#1- Three dates and a reality check

|

black-and-white-car-couple-drive-Favim.com-1690014“I think a car ride is an intimate experience. For a period of time, two people are confined to a space. You get to know a lot from a person just by driving with them. My favourite dates are roadtrips…” 

Date Expectations welcomes the first contribution on its page. Melissa* dropped us a note to share with us her story:

If anything, I’m guilty of setting my dating expectations too high. I expect butterflies, hours of conversation, the man sending you home; the whole enchiladas. As a (serial) monogamist who hasn’t been single for close to a decade, I had problems admitting that that’s not the game anymore. But I mean, why go out at all otherwise? I was faced with the reality and this was the story.

One fateful night, my girlfriend and I stumbled upon an empty club and decided to download tinder. I swiped right on one guy, who swiped right back at me. We had a good banter. So he asked me out. We went on three dates in total. It was a cold slap of reality check.

I was nervous on the first date. Luckily he played everything by the book. He picked me up, ordered wine, ordered dessert. He had so many brownie points that it pains me to say there wasn’t any chemistry! What’s going on there mother nature! So even after he brought up the stories of his ex, I was adamant to go out with him again. I mean, it has to work, right? He played by the book!

So we went out again, he picked me up after work and we went for dinner and drinks. No wine this time, which worked against my will to make this date a successful one. I was hit by the reality that we shared nothing – absolutely nothing – in common. He tried to ‘fix’ everything I did, which was awful.

I tried at jokes, to humor the sad situation I’m in. Strange twist of event, he was actually charmed by my humour and asked me out again. But this time I knew better to manage his and (more importantly) my expectations – I told him to wait for another two weeks.

“Perfect,” he said, “I’ll be travelling anyway.”

Great. So I didn’t push for it. We didn’t contact each other for two weeks straight and I actually started to forget about him.

Until two weeks later, he texted me, all worked up and upset because I didn’t contact him.

Huh?

This was one of the few ‘huh?’ moments in my life. Whenever two parties have working mobilephones with working 4G connection, a non-contact is a mutually agreed upon condition, no? Well at least that’s what I thought. And I felt bad, so I agreed again when he asked me out the third time.

The last time we met was in a cafe for brunch. Food was paltry bordering superficial, just like our conversations. He was evidently nervous. He had to burn two sticks before coffee. We caught up for an hour before I made up an excuse to leave. During the conversation though, for some unfathomable reason I mentioned I would be somewhere around his house the next day. Logic failed me but we agreed to meet (again!) the next day as as we were leaving. 

Here’s the thing, I refused to let him send me home. I think a car ride is an intimate experience. For a period of time, two people are confined to a space. You get to know a lot from a person just by driving with them. My favourite dates are roadtrips and he’s just not someone I’d take roadtrip with.

So he walked me to the bus stop. My bus stopped while we were a few metres short. He then told me, I could run for the bus if I wish.

So I did. I didn’t think too far. We exchanged polite texts afterwards to thank each other for the company. I thought that’s the end of it.

The real cold slap dawned around 5AM the next day when we’re supposed to meet. He texted me that he was drunk. He told me to check with him an hour before we’re supposed to meet if, and I quote, “I’m not dead yet”. I told him to rest and have a good life, basically.

What I failed to understand was that he then told me the blow by blow accounts of what happened that night, with an amazing recollection for someone suffering a deathly hangover. I replied, man this isn’t working.

He told me, he wasn’t sorry.

That’s the end of it. Rather than placing his actions on a petri dish of a psychoanalytical microscope, I accepted the reality that after so long, I’m single again. I’m back in the game and it’s an unfamiliar territory. I accepted that I need to adjust my expectations. But chemistry? I think everyone needs to have chemistry to date. At least enough to last a car ride.

large

 *Names have been changed, for obvious reasons, suckers.