You know those annoying people who call their partners "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" when they're well past the age of boy/girlhood? Well, I am one of those people. I am also one of those people that is afraid of commitment, afraid of compromise, afraid of failing at the relationship thing (despite long and glorious history of spectacular relationship implosions that should've gotten me used to it by now).
And I am one of those people that other people think should definitely Meet This Nice Friend of theirs who will be Perfect For Me. And I am one of those people that says sure, I'd be happy to meet them, and then spends the entire day drinking tea to quell the nervousness of having to go out later that evening and Make A Good Impression.
Which is how I spent all of yesterday.
I woke up to a text message from Andie and six from Phil, and dragged my weary ass into the shower to get marginally presentable. Shaved and showered, I retrieved my mobile from the sink where it had fallen after vibrating violently off the counter thanks to multiple phone calls from Phil stating that I was rubbish, and demanding that I rectify this sorry state of affairs by getting my lazy butt out of the house and coming to meet them immediately. I hurriedly chowed down a bowl of soba (it was to be the only bright spot in my weekend), checked what I could see of the upper half of my outfit in the 6-inch high bathroom mirror, made sure my teeth were seaweed-free, and headed out.
Two hours on the crowded tram. I got off, convinced that I smelled of BO and stale onions. In the five minutes it took to dash across Brunswick Street, I had made the mental leap to inevitable rejection and possibly even quiet ridicule, and was wracking my brain for the perks of dying alone and unloved, when the bouncer at Little Creatures said, "Coming in?" and I nodded, forever sealing my fate.
As it turns out, the evening wasn't half bad. Somehow dashing your own hopes before your beer arrives makes you slightly more immune to marked lack of eye-contact, let alone signs of even fleeting curiosity from the party you're being set up with. Or when said party returns from the bathroom and your friends not-so-subtly move so you're sitting next to each other. I rapidly downed four pints, reasoning with myself that if I was doomed to making a fool of myself, I might as well do so in a state of oblivion.
Andie remarked that the night was young and suggested that we go dancing, an idea taken up rather enthusiastically by everyone. Except me. I tried to channel my panic into fervent appeals to the universe that the dance club down the street have burnt down, and as a backup plan, tried to think of excuses to leave that wouldn't sound like I was giving Phil's friend the brush-off (because even my pessimism is adulterated with optimism). Luckily for me, the dance club plan was shelved in favour of karaoke - and karaoke meant more drinking and all-round humiliation. I got to do the one thing that I think impresses potential dates: throw back straight shots of tequila and belt out hits from early '90's boy bands.
Why I'm still single is one of the enduring mysteries of the universe.
And I am one of those people that other people think should definitely Meet This Nice Friend of theirs who will be Perfect For Me. And I am one of those people that says sure, I'd be happy to meet them, and then spends the entire day drinking tea to quell the nervousness of having to go out later that evening and Make A Good Impression.
Which is how I spent all of yesterday.
I woke up to a text message from Andie and six from Phil, and dragged my weary ass into the shower to get marginally presentable. Shaved and showered, I retrieved my mobile from the sink where it had fallen after vibrating violently off the counter thanks to multiple phone calls from Phil stating that I was rubbish, and demanding that I rectify this sorry state of affairs by getting my lazy butt out of the house and coming to meet them immediately. I hurriedly chowed down a bowl of soba (it was to be the only bright spot in my weekend), checked what I could see of the upper half of my outfit in the 6-inch high bathroom mirror, made sure my teeth were seaweed-free, and headed out.
Two hours on the crowded tram. I got off, convinced that I smelled of BO and stale onions. In the five minutes it took to dash across Brunswick Street, I had made the mental leap to inevitable rejection and possibly even quiet ridicule, and was wracking my brain for the perks of dying alone and unloved, when the bouncer at Little Creatures said, "Coming in?" and I nodded, forever sealing my fate.
As it turns out, the evening wasn't half bad. Somehow dashing your own hopes before your beer arrives makes you slightly more immune to marked lack of eye-contact, let alone signs of even fleeting curiosity from the party you're being set up with. Or when said party returns from the bathroom and your friends not-so-subtly move so you're sitting next to each other. I rapidly downed four pints, reasoning with myself that if I was doomed to making a fool of myself, I might as well do so in a state of oblivion.
Andie remarked that the night was young and suggested that we go dancing, an idea taken up rather enthusiastically by everyone. Except me. I tried to channel my panic into fervent appeals to the universe that the dance club down the street have burnt down, and as a backup plan, tried to think of excuses to leave that wouldn't sound like I was giving Phil's friend the brush-off (because even my pessimism is adulterated with optimism). Luckily for me, the dance club plan was shelved in favour of karaoke - and karaoke meant more drinking and all-round humiliation. I got to do the one thing that I think impresses potential dates: throw back straight shots of tequila and belt out hits from early '90's boy bands.
Why I'm still single is one of the enduring mysteries of the universe.
