Bad Date Stories an Dating Rules

It was Thursday night and we were out for sushi, KevinBacon and I. And it was fun. We were discussing dating. Talking theory and regaling each other with past date stories. He asked a lot about the blog like did I write it to give advice? or who was the main audience? or how many hits did I get a day? And somewhere along the way he brought up an ex. Who just so happened to write a dating blog? urgh…that seems weird…I thought…wondering if he’s meeting up with me to learn all about the ins and outs of dating blogging because of her? And so I started to wonder, since Vancouver is an incredibly small city to begin with, and there seem to only be a handful of us dating bloggers, if that, who it might be and if I had any contact with them. Sensing this, I’m guessing, he told me.

And wouldn’t you fucking know it. She followed me on Twitter. Had been following me on Twitter for awhile. And I had recently followed her when I went through a big misguided *follow everybody who follows you* phase. The truth was we’d never engaged. She retweeted me fairly often but she just wasn’t #MyKindOfPanda. I engage with people for 1 of 3 reasons:

1. I know them IRL

2. They’re funny

3. They interest me

She unfortunately fell into none of these categories, though I’m sure a lovely gal. And I couldn’t help but to think. Really?!?! Now I know people are constantly discovering themselves and what they do and don’t like in people and relationships and even just life. But this girl really couldn’t be more different from me. I would guess she never swore, or said retarded (two things he obviously wasn’t so super keen on as he joked about wanting to catch my words right out of the air so as to not hit the people at the table next to us). She was probably a real sweetheart…I bet she doesn’t watch TV either. Bleh.

After that, I tried to steer the conversation away from blogging for a bit. Honestly, the whole thing kind of weirded me out. That’s a pretty big coincidence in a city with fewer dating bloggers than I’ve got fingers. But I digress.

After that we talked about ourselves, personal histories and day by day details. Having both gone to UBC, and me still there working on my 2nd BA, we had more than one thing in common. And this of course lead to a conversation about the intelligence, or possibly complete lack thereof, of the boys I’d previously dated. Which in turn lead to comments about the enjoyment of our current conversation, and the obvious ability to sustain one as such. And that’s when it happened.

This is one of the best dates I’ve been on in a really long time he said. And I just looked at him. Wait?!? What!?!? This is a date I asked baffled using some kind of *this-here-this-right-now-you-me-you-me-you-type hand gestures*

Does it matter? he asked and I did everything to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor.

Of course it fucking matters! Of course it matters! Fucking of course! Don’t be retarded! I have compartments! I’m a compartmentalizer! Friends go over here! Dating goes over here! No mixing! No emotional double dipping! Pick a side and stay there!

But that’s not exactly what I said. I contained it all as well as I could. But I was honest. Of course it matters I said. He asked why and I tried to explain without sounding like some kind of control freak. I stumbled a bit with the explanation. Trying to convey that there are easily 2 “SSDateds”. There’s “Friend SSDated”; she’s the one you see on Twitter, the one who says balls and blowjobs and jizz and fuck fuck fuck! and is judgey wudgey was a bear and all that jazz. She’s a lot of fun, I’m not going to lie. And then there’s “Dating SSDated”; she’s awfully girly and rarely talks too loud, she’s fun but she’s understanding and patient and non-judgmental, she’s just so goddamn go with the flow. I still wasn’t sure he was really getting it.

And then the bill came. Or more exactly the waitress came and asked if she should split the bill. We both said yes and when she’d gone from the table he asked my opinion. About who should pay on the first date. And my response? This. This right here. This is why it matters. I said. Whether or not this is a date.

Because if we were out there having sushi as buddies, as friends, as pals, as Twitter meeters I’d be explaining why I Never Pay On First Dates. The answer would be Boys pay. Always. No Fucking question. If you’re on a date you get that wallet out quick, son. You have the credit card ready. Or you pull a Batman-James-Bond-Super-Sex-Hero and you give the waitress a card, long before the thought of a cheque ever hits the table.

But, if we were on a date??? Well then the answer would be completely different. I’d probably shrug my shoulders, bat my eye lashes while averting my eyes. It doesn’t matter I’d say we can split it. Of course. *awkward silent exasperation* No biggie and then I’d smile. Cute. Adorable. Pleasant. Affable.

Which is what we did. Split it, I mean.

To Be Continued . . .

Try to Find a More Honest Dating Site

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Jaded Daters

A Date By Any Other Name: Part Two

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