I have a date Saturday.
So I’ve spent the past few days conducting self conferences about my much-needed facelift. I’m not ugly though, who is? My brows just grow like SOS missiles that remain stranded, and I’m sure my upper lip hair can only be seen in flattering lighting. If this guy doesn’t admire the deteriorating aesthetic of my nine-week-old nail polish, is he even a progressive thinker?
I could make the effort to refurbish myself but I’ll probably decide that my rawest form is my truest, which inevitably will lead to my unanswered text about our next date. It’s okay, he won’t look half as good as his mouthwatering online photos. His breath will smell a little and as women, we put up with a lot. I will overanalyze the conversations we have and think that by him opening up about his adulterous ex, it will shove me into a better light. It won’t. I will then sympathize and encourage the idea of hope and looking beyond dishonesty, during this he will be sending a text to her apologizing for his ineptness.
He will kiss me before the night ends and recite my different levels of beauty in trivial ways.
“You’re way better looking than your pics.”
“You’re like, pretty.”
“You are a strong looking woman.”
And each one will make me blush. I will welcome all cliff-hanging compliments. He will try to touch my butt and I will compromise the place, time, person and overall experience. It will end with us going back to his place or mine, and I will then have to let him know that I’m looking for something serious. He falsely agrees, amplifying my declarations and pursuing them. For eight hours at least, and six of those I’m fast asleep dreading my morning mug.
But yeah, I’m excited for this date.