Man! This is going less than great. Don’t you have a mandate for proper behaviour on a first date? Like knowing how to carry a conversation … to reciprocate?
For starters, enough about how much time you spend at the gym. And please, I don’t need to see your pecs flex again. I don’t care about how much you can press—hmm. That rhymes with acquiesce and suggest.
I digress.
When did a muscle vest become proper drinks and dinner dress? And why in God’s name did you bring your dumbbells! Oh, this is new: sets and reps with drinks for two.
I don’t expect chivalry. I’m not asking you to pull out the chair for me, but showing the waiter your workout moves; of that, I disapprove. Is this how you flirt? I’ve lost my appetite for dinner and dessert.
When we agreed to split the appetizer, I didn’t know you’d eat all the dip in one go. I didn’t want just the bread, you know. And ew, your beard is dirty. Can you make less of a mess, maybe dust off the crumbs on your chest.
And why am I still sitting here? It’s not like I’m stuck to this chair. Can someone yell fire so I can get out of here. Note to self: My social politeness and tolerance mandate need an upgrade. Or is it down? I can’t think straight with you around.
We agreed to split the bill, but you had six drinks, and I had one cocktail? I know you’re not aware, but this date ends right here. It seems like you had fun. Your ability to read the room is bar none.
This internal monologue, only slightly exaggerated, is based on several real dates. There are countless moments where I felt the need to be polite, agreeable, pleasant, and quiet even when I was uncomfortable and that makes me uncomfortable. But on some level, it felt like self preservation. (I see this being a skit too).
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