The following weekend, I met two adorable and shockingly literate men while out... and while I didn't sloppily make out with them in any alleys, I did give both of them my number to play my odds (Okay, fine, and made out with one of them in the alley. And the other in a basement.) Well kids, when it rains it pours, and Mr. Friday and Mr. Saturday soon became Mr. Sunday Night Date and Mr. Monday Night Date.
Somewhere in between trying on my 47th outfit and listening to three different Tegan and Sara albums, it hit me: Dates don't excite me. Dating is a lot like reading James Joyce novels. I don't actually want to do it, but I feel like a lesser person if I don't. There's nothing fun about one dimensional conversation, having to shave my legs, or pretending to eat less than Kate Moss.
Why, why, oh why can't it be socially acceptable to make out with hot exchange students every weekend right before they move back to Mozambique/Liechtenstein/Bolivia? Why do I have to....get to KNOW people? Or even worse...start to CARE about people?
Maybe it's a slightly cynical, misanthropic attitude. But expectations tend to lead to disaster, whereas one time make outs tend to lead to hilarious stories. Although I guess disaster leads to hilarious stories too.
Say goodnight and go,
Ivy
