Cant date, wont date

What is the point? You meet a guy and you know where it’s all gona end up anyway, in the sack. Whether the ‘I do’ comes first or not, sooner or later, y’all are gona be stripped to your bare nakedness so why go through the terribly uncomfortable preamble of getting to know you, tedious polite conversation, watching his reaction to your ill timed jokes, praying your make up isn’t reminiscent of that terrible production of Frankenstein’s bride and you arnt bursting out of your clothes like the incredible hulk, trying to keep your burps and farts in, stomach in, chest out, praying that the wonderbra does not sprout a leak … the list is endless. Why do we bother? Why go through the self scrutiny, being unnerved by his glances and facial expressions that you as yet cannot read, not getting his jokes and he clearly not interested in yours? Again why bother?

I think dating should be scrapped. I think people who are single and want to meet other people should be shipped off to a nudist beach somewhere and once you get over the shock of seeing each others wobbly bits for the first time, the ice broken you can then get on with shagging (or not) and then obsessing over everything else that is wrong with him (or her). This weekend, I took it upon myself (glutton for punishment that I am) to meet up with someone I’ve had a crush on for a while -yes, I said crush, get over it- this would be meeting number 3. Emphasis on meeting, I do not do dates.

I had hoped that this encounter would be different though I have no idea what I based that hope upon considering we don’t talk on the phone, text messages are non frequent (read as practically none existent) and the emails only come after I (what feels like) badger him into saying something. Come to think of it, why meet up with him in the first place? I’ve never been one to subscribe to the whole ‘I can make you love me’ school of thought. You either like me or you don’t. I’m none too comfortable with the idea of pestering someone with your presence until they are both deaf and dumb and wake up one day with a eureka! Like thought: ‘I think I like her!’ The way I see it, forcing yourself on someone’s personal space who isn’t exactly making any stops to reciprocate is just plain silly. You very well could be messing with rules and forces outside of your short sightedness. Like you could have rather selfishly just messed up the whole order of things and thanks to you, Umfufu with the big f*cked up afro doesn’t get to meet with Dexter from Trinidad because you decided to plant your messed up aura in the way of true love (forget I said true love) and in effect, shift the direction of where connections should have been made. I digress and have clearly lost the point I was tryna make, so babble on I must.

I woke up on Sunday morning -post a Saturday which for now shall go unacknowledged- and had the seriously strong urge to head to church. I stopped short of actually getting out of bed with the realisation that I don’t actually know any churches I would go to on purpose. Perhaps it’s time to change my religion? Anyway, hunger struck, with no Aunt Jemima’s handy, I figured brunch would be a good way to go (this was about 10:00 hrs and I had a premonition I wouldn’t be ready to actually leave my flat till 13:00 hrs). So what do I do (insert light bulb and Oliver Twist looking face)? I reached for my phone and called McWhoosh (yes, I watch Greys Anatomy, again, get over it) to see if he would like to witness me make a total prat of myself. No sooner had the phone started to ring than I started to have some serious second thoughts. Ring, ring. No answer. Phew! I hang up. Fast fwd an hour, he calls back (oh lord!).

Me: (sounding unnecessarily cheerful) Helloooo!
McWhoosh: Hello.
(insert awkward silence)

Me: Good night?
(insert something inaudible)
Me: Oh dear, cracking one huhn? Terribly hung over?
McWhoosh: No, I just woke up is all and saw your missed call. I’m still in bed.

Me: Oh? Well, I er … I was, am hungry, please tell me you are too and wana meet up for breakfast, I mean brunch?
McWhoosh: Cool, where?
Me: I don’t mind, you pick
McWhoosh: No, you pick
Me: Well seeing as you just woke up, you don’t sound like you wana venture too far out of your comfort zone so seriously, pick something near you and I’ll show. I just need food, don’t mind where.

McWhoosh: * sigh*
(insert thought bubble: bloody indecisive women who refuse to take charge!)

McWhoosh: *sighs* again, look, seriously, you pick
Me: (now getting mildly irritated, much like watching people do the you hang up routine, I’ve been known to hang grab the phone and hang up on the person’s behalf) No, you
McWhoosh: No you
Me: No, y… ok look, I don’t wana do this back and forth thing so I’ll think of something and call you back
McWhoosh: Thank you.
Me: (stubborn much?!) Coolie, ttyl

I think, and then some. Nothing. Called Oba, -woke him up again for like the third time this week, I’m sure he is terribly close to having my number barred- terribly sorry to wake you, I said, but can you recommend somewhere to go eat at this hour. Patisserie Valerie Covent Garden, blah blah (he said). Yea, I thought as much. I’ll check online. Sorry to have bothered you, go back to sleep.

30 minutes later and still unable to decide on somewhere neutral that doesn’t scream any or all of the words pretentious, date or worse, WTF are you doing with her? I sent a text.

Meet me at Marylebone High Street and we can pick something in then.

Cool, see you in about an hour he replied.

I read it as 2 hours. Again, determined to be nothing other than my causal self (any mention of me being a mildly neurotic being uncomfortable in her own skin will be swiftly ignored thank you very much) and take him (treat this meeting) as I would a regular friend who I was just meeting for lunch (insert Chukwudi et al, I relax a lil, slipped into an alright looking dress (I’m still experimenting with dresses right now) and flip flops to tone down the plunging halter neckline, backless floor length dress and relied only on earrings to make it look understated yet cute (earrings which he later told me looked odd yet interesting). Already impressed with my nonchalant presence in the mirror, I left my flat and after a few minutes of stepping out my door, I got a few looks (male and female), a few cars stopped... I guess I look aright then. Sun was out, things are looking up. ipod, Kelly Clarkson – Since You’ve Been Gone. I could be floating on a marshmallow, I was that relaxed.

As I walked towards Marylebone High Street, I had a few minutes to wait at Baker Street traffic lights, I got into the song as I tend to do and was sort of singing, kind of bouncing (trying not to dance), conscious of the plunging neck, I try to rectify what was almost a wardrobe malfunction, in a way one would when you think are not being watched or are in a public area and don’t give a toss who’s watching. My only thought at the time being: I really shouldn’t have done this without a bra.

I carried on oblivious of my surrounding and then just as the red light changed, I look across the street and there he was. McWhoosh. My heart stopped. There is nothing more embarrassing than being observed by someone you know without your knowledge (or so I thought). How long had he been standing there? What was he doing here, he shoulda been heading in the other direction. He saw me from afar and walked towards me instead (he said). Great! A curse unto my short sightedness. We hug, albeit awkwardly. He smiled (why am I such a sucker for dimples?!) and then just looked at me, saying nothing, I start to ramble, and nervously fill the silence and attempt to soften the scrutinising glare of his gaze. So much for being calm.

We walk, I try to chit chat, he provides very little support. Difficult sod. I used to think I do pretty well with people. You can put me in a room with random strangers and I just get on with it … that is of course unless the room is filled with a lot of McWhooshs'.

After a few false starts (most of the choice places are full), we went to my usual brunch spot and I got increasingly uncomfortable being there. It started to feel like a date. I do not date, and most of all, I do not like being around people who make it impossible for us to have a relaxing conversation. In a nutshell, disaster struck within a few minutes of us being there. He wanted omelettes which I insisted they served at the eatery, we waited 15 very agonising minutes to be seated. Me thinking of ways to run toward the door and head home, him not helping the situation. We were finally seated outside, not the most comfortable place to be, cramped space, nowhere to put my bag, I had to strategically fit myself in the chair without my left boob falling out. I sit, twitch, uncomfortable and totally aware that whatever famished desire for food I had before had just been replaced with a hunger for the safety of my own four walls.

We order. No omelettes on the menu, I apologise profusely, asked if he’d like to leave, we could always go somewhere else. No, he said then made some non comital joke about how he really likes nothing better than an omelette on a Sunday, sort of starts his week off (was that supposed to be his way of breaking the ice?) I apologised again and asked if he’d like to leave, he declined, I ordered my usual. He gets scrambled eggs, and then came the comment about the earrings (after one of his prolonged stares and silences). The drinks arrived first (thank god! At least I can stop fidgeting with my tissue and instead of tryna talk, I’ll just sip and let him do some of the work for a change. I take my smoothie (pink) and try to stir the thickness; instead, I bless the surrounding with a sacrifice. The entire contents of my glass was now across the table, unto his sneakers (white), caught bits of his rolled up long sleeved sweater (white), the bottom half of my dress, my bag, the base of the table, the floor around us … it was a smoothie massacre and I wanted to go die.

He didn’t say much, I kept apologising, and in between hating myself, I cursed at him (I my mind), for making me so darned uncomfortable to have spill this in the first place. Shoot, if it were a friend I was cool with, we’d laugh about it and carry on with the food or call it a day, get takeaway and head to one of our homes to eat and get clean. I eyed my escape route and was about to make a beeline for the ladies to hatch a good plan to leave when the food came. We eat in silence. He told me I looked like I was gona cry. I looked at him and thought I just gave you the best ice breaker ever and you can’t even come up with a funny story, your most embarrassing moment, a friend’s, anything?

I grew increasingly tired and picked at my food. My replacement smoothie arrived, he teased the waiter (teased the waiter and made an actual joke with him! For me? Nothing!)… and said

McWhoosh: careful you don’t spill it
Waiter: no, that’s her job

They bond. URGH! I thought, great, how about you take him back to your place and shag him then?!

Waiter: I’m only teasing m’am, it’s your smoothie, you can do with it as you wish and spill it as many times as you want.

Bollocks! I thought as they chuckled again. Now this bozo is gona expect me to tip him?

Brunch went on as comfortably as watching a fat sweaty, smelly, big breasted and hairy man extract your tooth with a blunt object whilst singing (and part spiting) beer breath, tinged with coffee and an interesting stale smell of a heated ashtray at you.

We pay, we leave, I tried to not have this be the way we part and thought maybe a change of scenery would help. I took him to the gallery in my ’hood. We walk around, he pointed at some things and talked to me a lil about the artefacts we were looking at, I relax and then he started again. At this point, I realised it’s not me that’s being odd, it’s him that’s being difficult. It like he purposefully turns on this other persona which just totally unrattles you for his own viewing pleasure. Sadistic bastard. So I decide to channel the nerves he was arousing into something far more productive: innuendo. Now, I know I’m not good at flirting but knowing he isn’t adverse to direct insinuations, I touched him here and there and was mildly delighted with the knowledge that I was easing into this role far better. He made some passing remark that I had fashioned some plan to seduce him in the weapon room, I ignored.

We left and though he was in a rush to head home, we end up in the cinema. The darkness relaxed him and I thought to hell with it. I should not be the only one suffering the foolishness of this moment and so I touched and teased and felt him thump with the strength that could lift an encyclopaedia. I will conquer this stretch of land yet, so help me god.

After the movie, I noticed his sweater was totally covered in Iman. I go to say something and then things start to go horribly wrong again. Very wrong. But this is running six pages long already and I bet you stopped reading so I’m just going to summarise:

Next time (if) I see him, he WILL be coming to MY territory i.e. my flat, I WILL be opening the door naked (or close to it) and after making him significantly uncomfortable in his pants, we will just get on with it- either shag for England and tell him to get out if that still doesn’t break the ice (lord knows I hate unnecessary pillow talk) OR he sees me, I tell him what I have to say and ask him to chill and be more amiable or get out. I do not date.

Dictionary Corner
• Whoosh – a movement -often occuring in women- not to dissimilar to that of an opening of a dam, usually occurring due to an external stimulus.
• Whoosher – any seriously whooshifying individual who opens up your dam just by breathing
• McWhoosh – my future human generator, so help me winter

**please note: only women whoosh. If a guy sees something that he qualifies as a potential whooshifier, you MUST correct him and tell him - men have medges that kick, women whoosh**

Class dismissed.
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Free WriteOreka Godis