To say I have a bad history of first dates is an understatement.
My dating history, while not extensive, has endured enough trauma to be deemed as ‘cursed’ by my best friends. This may sound dramatic, and I wish it was. I wish these anecdotes were falsified stories, made up in my mind for the sake of a good read.
I once went on a date with a boy who spent 97% of the time focused on his phone, and the other 3% staring at our waitress’ breasts. Another time, I went on a date with a rather nice guy, but the date was moved up an hour, so I arrived with my freshly showered hair in an unkempt bun, tucking my outfit together as I got out of the car (which he totally saw, by the way), and since I had forgotten all of my makeup at home, I was completely exposed at a time when my pores decided to go into overdrive and create the largest breakout I’d ever experienced. This may not sound too awful, until you understand that I also hadn't time to brush my teeth, so I remedied this with some Ice Breaker’s Ice Cube gum- the kind with the little beads of minty gel that prolong the experienced flavor; which is a genius idea, except that one of these minute, blue orbs lodged itself between my two, front teeth for my date to find when I smiled ‘hello’... And finally, there was that one date whom I threatened to pepper-spray (long story, it was well deserved, he was awful).
These are just the briefest, most concise stories for me to clearly explain the dilemma that is my cursed dating life. And it's not even truly my dating life as a whole... No, it's specifically a curse on my first dates. I am cursed to have awful, uncomfortable, make-you-want-to-curl-up-into-a-ball-and-die first dates.
It's not that this really upsets me; it's become a sort of inside joke with my close friends. It's a character trait of mine. Just another quirky stitch in my fabric. I had truly accepted this curse as something unavoidable and unchangeable, and I didn't really mind but I also didn't really like it either. I don't like being hindered, yet I was allowing myself to be trapped by an imaginary box, like a pathetic mime in a crop top and mom jeans.
About a month ago, I went on a date with a boy I’d met at a Halloween party the week before. He was cute, and he seemed decently interesting, so when he suggested we meet for lunch, I figured I’d give him a shot. I knew full-well that I was in for some cringe-worthy ordeal, but the story of it would be funny to tell my friends later on, and I’ve never been one to turn down a first date, so we set a time and place, and I mentally braced myself for whatever awkwardness I was bound to endure.
The date started 30 minutes late, because we were both 30 minutes late: I had lost my keys and he had some mishap with his dryer machine. When I finally arrived, the parking lot was crammed full and I circled for a good 10 minutes before squeezing into a spot between two terrible parking jobs. I then proceeded to get lost in this outdoor maze-of-a-mall. I hadn't even found my date yet and I had already called my best friends in a panic, who laughed on the other end of the line and told me that I should’ve expected this sort of thing. They were right; after all, I was cursed. It took 20 minutes, but eventually I stumbled upon the correct location, red-faced and slightly sweating, but he just smiled, hugged me, and we started off towards the restaurant.
The rest of that day is a blur of pleasant, insignificant details. I had a wonderful time. He took my awkwardness in stride, and has continued to do so for about a month now; sharing my love for strange candies and odd cartoons; letting me play my terrible music in the car; making me laugh when I really don't think I can. My cursed self has spent a month being not-so-cursed.
This is not a love story. It’s not a magical, cheesy rom-com, boy-meets-girl-and-changes-her-fate type story. That's not the purpose of this fleeting tale. Because the truth behind that story remains, no matter how this one ends. The point of the story isn't about this boy at all; in fact, it's not even really about me. The point is the curse. I, like so many others, had allowed myself to be confined by my imagined limitations. I had accepted a false reality as my own, and while it may seem trivial in comparison to the more somber struggles of others, the fact that anyone would allow themselves to be 'cursed' at all is trivial, in itself. Curses, just like magic and unicorns, are not real. We make our own path, we decide our own fate. We are not subject to the mercy of some mystically malevolent witchcraft. We need to stop entertaining the notion that we are.
