How do dates work again?

Hey there Lovers!

I know I promised a full run through of the date I had today but I’m definitely still processing! What I will run you through though is my usual date preparation, and please don’t hesitate to let me know if you go through this trial every time too! It’s good to stick together sisters! (And of course brothers) 😉

The thrill of the first date is not a feeling that can be easily replicated. There’s the message or phone call from that special someone confirming that indeed, tonight is the night. You struggle to get through work, see sawing from unbridled glee to sheer terror. You take more than your fair share of toilet breaks, prompting your workmates to inquire about the state of your bowels and if it’s contagious, which then practically forces you to tell them every detail about your special night. On the bright side, you receive quite a few helpful tips. On the down side, when eight girls are telling you their personal dating secrets, it’s very difficult to pick which one to use. Lunch is almost impossible, as your stomach churns with nerves, and your brain reminds you of that teeny tiny dress your hoping to squeeze into for tonight. You push around lettuce leaves, practising the most elegant way of eating a salad coated in French dressing. You discover there is, in fact no way to get an entire lettuce leaf in your mouth without spillage. After a few star jumps for good measure you are again chained to your desk, biting your nails constantly and googling pick up lines.

But finally, that clock ticks to five o’clock, and you run full pelt out of the office, just to get those extra few seconds of preparation time. He’s picking you up at seven, so by the time you get home that’s only an hour and forty-five minutes to get ready! Subtract shower time and you’ve barely got an hour left.

You throw open your wardrobe, swearing once again that you will go shopping this weekend as you have absolutely nothing to wear. After finally deciding on your least worst outfit you jump in the shower and lather, rinse, repeat. You shave everything, and some things twice. You rub on all your sexy bath oils, making you smell like a cross between fruit salad and macadamia nuts. You have a side thought about the fact he may be horribly allergic to nuts and scrub frantically to remove all traces from your skin. You hop out of the shower, barely stopping to dry yourself before skidding down the hallway to your room. The outfit is thrown on, assessed in the mirror and fails miserably. You call your best friend and you both agonise over outfits, trying on at least six in the process before finally deciding that the first outfit actually did look the best. Now time for the hair. There’s no time for straightening, so it’s pulled up into a neat bun. After realising you look like a somewhat constipated ballet teacher you pull it into a plait, which, although attractive, makes you look remarkably similar to a German beer Fraulein. Frustrated and running out of time you pull out your arsenal of clips and pins and arrange your unruly curls into a semi decent blob on the back of your head. The clock continues to tick as you smear on foundation, eyeliner and mascara. With five minutes to go the perfume choice must be made.

You spray a little on your neck, your wrists, your boobs and just for good measure, a teensy spritz between the legs. You’re no hussy, but what if he just happens to trip and lands smack between your thighs? He might get an eyeful, but the only thing he’ll be getting a nose-ful of on your watch is Gucci by Gucci. Finally, you hear that oh so terrifying crunch of tyres on gravel as he pulls into your driveway. A little scream escapes you lips and you run around the house, certain you’ve forgotten something but not entirely sure what. You slip on the tiles and fall face first into the mirror, jolting your memory. Lipstick! Hearing his tentative footsteps approach you hastily smear on an extra coating, then follow with lip gloss just to make your mouth pop. Seeing a speck on our teeth you dive over the bed for the tissues, hoping you haven’t creased your dress in the process.
He’s at the door and you can practically hear his arm reaching up to knock as you frantically scrub at your pink teeth.
The knock sounds and an even smaller scream bursts out of you. You do it a couple more times just in case he heard. Better for him to think your house is full of mice than realise it was you. Final mirror check and you’re headed towards the door. You can see his silhouette through the frosted glass and your heart jumps up into your throat. How drunk were you when you met? Could he be completely wrong for you? Could he be absolutely grotesque? Could he be distantly related? Shudder inducing thoughts indeed, but there’s no more time to think. The door opens, and there he is.
This is everyone’s first date preparation right? Or maybe it’s just me…

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