The pursuit of undeserved happiness

June 22, 2017 | thedateexpectations

Remember that scene in City of Angels where Meg Ryan’s character happily in love, rides her bike with her eyes closed and her arms wide open only to be fatally hit by a truck? Now, while I know the crucial lesson here is that operating any kind of machinery with your eyes shut and arms over your head generally results in death or some semblance of it, there seems to be a larger message at hand. Happiness is a precarious little thing and this scene in a nutshell summarises how I’ve often felt about most good things that happen to me, including falling in love. It is both exhilarating and terrifying, a blessing and a curse. It’s a constant reminder that everything in life that has been bestowed upon me is not something I truly deserve and could be snatched from my hands in a heartbeat at any time, but especially when I’m on a high.

“Careful, you’ll jinx it.”

This is something my sister and I often say to each other when we overtly express unadulterated joy or excitement over something, over anything really, from a job interview that went exceptionally well to a new blossoming friendship or even that new chicken stew recipe you think you’ve perfected. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Martha because there is a good chance you’re gonna fuck it all up.

Over the years, I’ve reminded myself many times to be grateful and to be happy but not too happy. Why? Self-preservation, perhaps? Inherently a negative Nancy? Or just superstitious? Maybe this is a product of my upbringing. Perhaps somewhere in there, lies a question of self-worth but that I’m certain is not a box I am inclined to open and take a peek into. I am trying to understand how and why we became so illogically cautious over voicing our happiness. Why do I assume, beyond reason and logic that articulating how blessed I am feeling (irl without the hashtag, of course), may lead to impending and excruciating loss? It sounds completely and utterly foolish, doesn’t it? And yet, this is my truth and I fail by my own damn complications.

As I hush the most recent obliterative whispers questioning my amour-propre and prerogative, I am trying to take chances, be recklessly expressive, be unafraid and live it and live in it. When life throws me a delicious bone, I am learning to gratefully (and boldly) accept it, place it on the silver platter that it rightfully deserves and chew on it, marvel at it and claim it. Why, you ask? Because I am flawed but I am also grateful, and loving something will always trump my own debilitating fear of losing something I love, regardless of whether I’m enough.

The Danger Zone aka The Friend Zone

December 6, 2015 | thedateexpectations

I’ve been meaning to address this for the longest time but life has gotten in the way of my – The Date Expectations – pursuits.

In the pilot season of F.R.I.E.N.D.S, (I know there appears to be a trend on quoting the series in quite a few of my posts) there is an episode where Ross is agonising over his secret love for Rachel, and Joey as a matter of fact informs him that he has sat on it for far too long and now it was nearly impossible to change this friendship to something romantic. His exact words were: Never gonna happen. You and Rachel. Because you waited too long to make your move and now, you’re in the friend zone…. Ross, you’re mayor of the zone.

And so began the countless memes and popular culture references to this exact situation, where a friendship exists between two people, one of whom has unrequited romantic feelings for the other. Most of us have been there, either on the giving or receiving end of things. Some of you may deny this and conveniently erase this embarrassing memory from your otherwise perfect lives. But let’s not kid ourselves, you too – Yes, you – have been there.

Just this year alone, I’ve met with friends and friends of friends who have discussed their dating experiences in detail with me, thanks to my pesky, nosy questions that I flagrantly pose at social events. And what was fascinating to me is how quite a few of them at some point in their lives, have had amorous interest in their friends or people in their immediate social circle, but held themselves back from acting on it because they felt like they had waited too long and had found themselves in a situation where they’d been diabolically friend-zoned to a point of no return.

To write about this seemingly awful idea of the friend zone, you’d think that I have had ample experience in this danger zone but the truth is (and thankfully so), I can only think very few occasions where I’d been undeniably friend zoned. The first and most pivotal time, was in my teenage years where I mustered up the courage to befriend whom I thought was the cutest guy I’d ever met. We’d talk on the phone every night before we went to sleep and hung out every other day after school hours to enjoy 50 cent ice-cream cones from McDonalds’. It was only after 3 months that I found out that I was out of his league because he batted for the other team. He had developed a crush on a boy he had met and decided to tell me about it. I should have known from the way he perfectly styled his hair, the manner in which he wore his pants just a little too snugly and how he strutted down the streets. I should have seen the rainbow flag he was waving loudly and proudly. But when a man buys you ice-cream and your favourite gummi bear candy, and walks down the street with his arm around your shoulder, you get a little punch-drunk and disillusioned. In retrospect, it’s side-splitting and makes for an excellent story to recount at a party. But back when I actually realised we couldn’t be together, it left me dejected and pessimistic temporarily. The wonderful thing about your adolescent years is that most of us don’t remember things for long. You get hurt but you pick yourself up quickly and move on but in your adult years, the pain hits a little harder and you remember every detail the same way an elephant has steel-trap memories.

So to gather some qualitative data, I sent some friends (single and attached) a text message recently asking them to recount a time in their lives where they had either been friend-zoned or had consciously friend-zoned someone, and these are some of the replies I got:

“Being friend-zoned feels like you’re in purgatory. You think you’re fucking close to heaven but actually, you’re knee deep in hell.”

“If I have a feeling that he is pursuing me and I just wanna be friends, I’d make it a point to refer to him as ‘bro’ just to set the record straight without actively addressing the situation.”

“It’s like not getting the job you applied for even though you really wanted it and are definitely qualified for it. And the employer calls you up every day to sing praises about the person they did hire!”

“Coincidentally, I went out yesterday with a friend and got an almost confession. He was complimenting me and then suddenly said ‘I think if I had an ideal type of girlfriend, you come closest out of all the girls I’ve met.’ I sat there stunned and then went ‘haha thanks’. I guess he took my hint and just went on to talk about girls in general or something.”

“You go back and forth on whether you took too long to confess your feelings. You thought you were laying the foundation and making calculated moves but before you know it, she’s in the arms of some other guy, and telling you how she can’t wait for you to meet him.”

and because we all have that one smartass friend:

“Does it count if I haven’t told someone yet? I need to ring up Ryan Gosling tonight. I think it’s time he knew we can only be friends.”

A quick Google search will inform you that there are in fact books on the market that advise readers on how to get out of the friend zone if they’re in it. And for the non-book readers, there are tons of articles and listicles online on the topic. I trawled through the internet to find some answers but as we all know, the internet generally poses more questions than actually giving you any answers.

I’m not sure that we can forever avoid being in the friend zone. It is bound to happen at one or point or another. When you like someone or if you feel like you’re attracted to them, most of us try to get to know someone on a more platonic level to test the waters instead of diving nose deep into a sea of uncertainty. And besides, at risk of sounding naïve, don’t some of the best love stories stem from a solid, natural groundwork of friendship? From the superficial research that I’ve done prior to writing this entry, I realise a lot of self-help books immediately label men/women who try the friendship route as the ‘nice guys’ and how they need to snap out of it. There are so many articles that advise men particularly to stop playing the nice guy and get out there to claim what’s theirs. A little aggressive if you ask me! I mean I see their point. We all want to go out of our way to do nice things for the people we love. This is no different from it. That said, I understand the full value of self-preservation and not devaluing oneself. No one should make all the sacrifices and make unnecessary compromises at the risk of looking like a doormat but you feel what you feel so where do you draw the line?

Yet again, I have only questions and no answers. Dr Helen Fisher might have some insight on this so you could check in with her. But if I had to dole out some advice, it would be this. Firstly, you – yes you – who is harbouring super loveydovey feelings and spending every waking minute imagining who your offspring is going to take after, you or the love of your life who doesn’t know it yet – STAWP! Crack addicts need their crack but crack, I hear tastes a lot better when you’ve had some separation time so do just that. Peel yourself from how you feel and leave some breathing room for the friendship to possibly flourish to a relationship. And you – If you’re in a situation where you know someone has romantic feelings for you and you might feel the same, let them know instead of leashing them along on a wild ride. But if you don’t see the potential for something more, don’t be an asshole and sweep the matter under the rug thinking the matter would resolve itself. Address it! This person, this friend of yours has feelings and emotions just like you do and is capable of heartbreak and anxiety just like you are, so put them out of their misery and let them know you’d like to be friends. It’s not going to be pretty and it will most definitely be awkward for a while, because who wants to hear from the person they might be in love with that they just want to be buddies? – how awful! – but at least you’d have set the record straight from the very beginning and both parties are clear. And who knows, you might end up being the best of friends and laughing about it at a Christmas party in years to come.

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A Spankin’ Good Time

July 16, 2015 | thedateexpectations

[Contribution]

Vacations are great for the soul. Vacations as a single woman are even better. The world suddenly (albeit finitely) becomes your oyster and your options are immediately limitless; you are a little less, nay a lot less inhibited. Vacation me is jarringly different from the real me. The control that I’m mad for, is left behind; No room for it in my suitcase and besides, the need to exercise control on vacation is inessential because vacation me is easy breezy and pretty much open to the idea of everything, well, almost everything. This sort of temporary philosophy in life, seen by most people as crazy, is thrilling and like the after-effects of copious amounts of tequila, also potentially perilous. Irrelevant thoughts when you’re Little Miss Easy Breezy on vacay.

About a month prior to a recent short trip to the Pacific Northwest (PNW), I decided to put all thoughts of serial killers aside and went onto two online dating platforms to 1. Shamelessly source for recommendations on what to do and eat in the city and 2. To potentially meet new folks to hang out with and experience the city I’ve been to umpteenth times through a different set of eyes.

Tinder and OkCupid demographics in the PNW seem to include plenty of men in fully disclosed open/ polyamorous relationships, and men who are serious about craft beer, their beards (if I had a dollar for every lumbersexual type I saw, I’d be rich), whiskey, cats, comments about their dogs and kids looking cuter than yours, the Seahawks, the Mariners, fishing, kayaking and cliff jumping. I’ve also learnt that phrasing is everything on a profile. Apparently, it’s completely legit to mention that one is ethically non-monogamous. I don’t know what that even means; do you sit through a certification course to determine if you’re an ethical non-monogamist or an unethical one? And when you stipulate that you are heteroflexible, does that simply mean you’re pansexual? Because it isn’t already painfully confusing enough for me to comprehend men that you now have to spin new fancy words to wrap my head around? That’s fine, so long as you aren’t going to cling wrap my naked body to a table and gorge my eyes out, I can try to understand. I’m not saying I agree with these careless modern labels, but I can try to understand.

Ethical non monogamists and polyamorous enthusiasts aside, the emerald city boasts an intellectually stimulating array of men. You know, the kind who take the time to craft sentences in an eloquent and charming manner, with a hint of cheekiness. And that’s precisely what drew me to Baby Jesus. Baby Jesus was affectionately dubbed as such because of his lusciously long tresses that resembled the son of God and a beard (*squeal) that is so impressively groomed that I wouldn’t be surprised if some Jewish person decided to betray him out of jealousy. Sacrilegious! I digress. Baby Jesus in a nutshell looked like a hippie but a well put together hippie – with an enviable career in video game design (nerd alert. Also, my kryptonite) for one of the powerhouses and an adventurous spirit. I knew instantly we would get along so when he offered to come pick me up from my hotel to take out on a surprise outing, I felt no fear nor discomfort at the idea. Generally, I have very good intuition when it comes to people. This would be the first time I’m meeting an almost complete stranger on a date in a foreign country. If my luck had been that terrible and if he had in fact turned out to be a creeper or God forbid, a mass murderer, I most definitely deserved the punishment that ensued for making such shockingly piss poor decisions in life.

After an evening of delicious tacos (the best in the emerald city, I’m told) Baby Jesus took me to my next stop – a well known cupcakery in the city. Any man who tries to win my heart with cupcakes gets bonus points no matter how much nicer his hair looks, compared to mine. I love meeting people who see the world differently from the way I do. Baby Jesus is a practicing Christian and was once engaged; He told me he loves going out on dates and that he loathes casual sex; Intimacy to him comes in other forms that don’t need to involve mindless sexual intercourse. I will soon learn what this actually means.

After an engaging conversation involving rambunctious laughter over a salted caramel and raspberry meringue cupcake; Both flavours were his choices as he looked at them sitting in the cake rack with lusty eyes, I couldn’t bear to let him simply choose one so I forwent my initial red velvet option to offer to pick his two favourites for us to share. Upon my thoughtful suggestion, he leaned over to the cashier and told him that I was the best date ever. Not-embarrassing-at-all.

The third part of our date involved a walk in the park. Baby Jesus had suggested in one of his text messages earlier that day for me to wear comfortable footwear and the walk in the park was the reason for this. The Summery day was coming to a nice cool evening and as we sat on the bench and talked about the things and people we have loved, I knew at that very moment that I was having a wonderful time. Upon a kneejerk comment I made about Americans being really daft, he leaned over and kissed, I suspect to shut me up. No complaints there.

As it got a little chilly, I invited Baby Jesus back to my suite to hang out over a cuppa tea. During the drive, it became evident what a naturally affectionate person he was. He spoke of his travels to India and why he loves what he does and throughout the entire 12 minute drive, he didn’t let go of my hand as he caressed it softly like we had known each other for years. At that point, I understood what he meant by intimacy in other forms.

Baby Jesus was an excellent kisser and my kind of nerd. I mean sure, I had to gently keep moving his hair from his face and tucking it behind his ears but what a refreshingly new thing to do. I remember cracking a joke about how it’s a good thing I have a haircut that resembles a boy’s to balance it all out. At that very moment, he slapped my bottom and I thought

– Oh my –

Being a video game designer means coming up with stories to make people’s fantasies online come true. Evidently, Baby Jesus adopted this stance in the bedroom as well. Granted this is a dating blog and not my very own version of Fifty Shades of Grey, I shall spare you all the details on what ensued. But let’s just say it was an exhilarating night of some cheeky fun that involved twitching open palms, a good set of sharp teeth and a leather belt. Laying in bed entangled all night in someone with whom you didn’t have sexual intercourse with is an experience worth writing a poem about.; it’s a different kind of intimacy, one I had never experienced before. As baby Jesus planted kisses on the back of my neck as he lulled me to sleep, I thought about three things before finally dozing off– Firstly, that intimacy is subjective and secondly, I had learned a very useful lesson on what it truly means to lose control and just let go. My final thought before Baby Jesus got the opportunity to hear my snores that resembles that of a baby grizzly bear’s grunts was a gentle reminder to myself to apply baby lotion to my stinging buttocks the following morning.

On First Date Etiquette: Kisses, Handshakes or Hugs?

May 7, 2015 | thedateexpectations

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?

#1- Three dates and a reality check

February 12, 2015 | thedateexpectations

“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.

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

From a stand up guy to the guy who stood me up.

February 11, 2015 | thedateexpectations

Two months ago, while I was sitting around with a broken ankle, feeling sorry for myself, I found some comfort in watching re-runs of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. In one of the episodes, Ross gets stood up on a date. I mean in truth, he didn’t really get stood up because his friends (Joey and Phoebe) intentionally wanted him to realise how shitty the dating world is so that he would try and make amends with Rachel, so they set him up on a fake date. But poor Ross is sitting at the restaurant sipping on his water, wondering why his date isn’t showing up. I remember seeing this and thinking “oh god, how awful it must be to have your date not show up. What would be even more horrible is if you’re on a blind date, and your date walks in, takes a look at you and decides to walk out.” Who does that, you ask? There are assholes aplenty and while I could never do that to someone, no matter what a bitch I can be, the same can’t be said for the rest of the population.

So the seed was planted and when I started venturing out on dates this year in January, the thought did cross my mind a couple of times. On my first date with Mr January, he was 15 minutes late. He was lost and didn’t have wifi but during those 15 minutes, I wondered if perhaps I too like Ross had been stood up. That wasn’t the case though 🙂 And what a relief that was.

Last night, I was to meet someone who asked me out for dessert. We exchanged interesting messages on Tinder and there was a great flow of communication. He was in town for a couple of days and while he obviously had a jam-packed schedule, he asked me out for cake. I never say no to cake so I said yes. We were to meet after his dinner party that his friends were hosting him for – I’m quite a stickler for proper times and plans – but I was being flexible. “Between 9.30pm and 10.30pm”, he said, to which I replied “10.30pm sounds good.” He loved carrot cake and while I teased him about why anyone would enjoy vegetables in their dessert, I remembered a bakery in town that sold quite possibly the best carrot cake in the city.

I like being early on dates. At least 10 minutes earlier than stipulated to allow me to settle in and get used to my surroundings. So I arrived 15 minutes to 10.30pm at the cafe, went up to the second floor, found myself a cosy table and ordered myself a glass of Chardonnay and waited:

10.30pm – It’s time. He’s not here yet. I suppose the cafe is tucked in a corner and he may take some time to find it.

10.35pm – Okay, maybe it’s time to look at the menu and decide on what dessert I’d like to have while I wait so I don’t take too long to decide while on a date.

10.40pm – Still no sign. I look at my phone, trying to open up text messaging apps to see if there was a text I missed out on. Nothing. Okay breathe.

10.45pm – Maybe tonight’s the night I get stood up. Oh don’t be silly. Let’s look at the menu again. Do I really want that coconut tart?

10.50pm – 20 minutes late. Should I text him? Profiterole is a funny word. Also choux pastry sucks. I wonder what he’d order, you know if he actually shows up. Breathes.

10.53pm – No show. Maybe he walked up, took a look at me guzzling down my Chardonnay and decided that’s not how he wants to spend his evening. Oh don’t be silly. Text your friends. They’ll calm your nerves.

10.58pm – Empty glass of Chardonnay and a dull ache in my tummy. Maybe he is waiting downstairs at the bar, thinking I’m late. So I ask the waiter if I could sit downstairs. At least this way, when he walks in, I might be able to wave and be like “Here I am! let’s eat cake!”

11.01pm – This is ridiculous. Maybe he died? These things happen right? Maybe I’ll text him, just in case. But first, another glass of Chardonnay. “Hello mister, am I seeing you soon? Drinking alone is not quite as fun and dessert beckons.”

11.02pm – I get a reply. I’m not going to quote him but in a nutshell, he apologised that dinner was delayed and so he is still at his friends’ home and isn’t sure when he can leave. To which, I then I asked if I should wait. And he replies a minute later with something along the lines of I have waited enough and he couldn’t ask that of me, that he hopes I’m not too mad at him and that he needs to get back to his friends before they think his phone is more interesting than the dinner conversation. I could have snapped at him. Instead, I told him to have a nice night, finished up my second glass of wine, got the bill, walked out of the cafe, dramatically dumped the box of carrot cake that I had purchased for my date into the rubbish bin, and went home.

So, how did it feel being stood up? Sure, it wasn’t really a conventional sense of being stood up. He did text me and I suppose he did have a marginally valid excuse. But I was upset. And as I write this, I wonder why a grown man didn’t have the intuition to text his date earlier to inform her that dinner was delayed and thus, our date would be too. Or if you can’t be at two places at the same time, don’t make double bookings.

It irks me but I shall shrug it off. Did I cry about it? I won’t even try to deny it. I cried myself to sleep last night, not because I was humiliated that my date stood me up. I am far too thick-skinned for that. But rather, last night as I sat alone sipping that glass of champagne while the waitress asked me a couple of times if I wanted to order dessert and I kept telling her “I’m waiting for my date,” I wondered if I was going to spend the rest of my life waiting. Looking at my now empty glass, I felt a wave of loneliness hit me. You know how much I love the dating game but last night, I got played. The Universe had a go with me. Well played, Universe. Well played. Me – 0, Universe – 1.

Who’s next? Let’s play.

The Date Expectations

Married, but still full of expectations and feelings.

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