OK so not my first date. Webster's defines a date as "a romantic appointment or engagement," and I have certainly been on my fair share of those.
But they have always seemed to be with my boyfriend, or at least "that guy I'm seeing." These kinds of dates are with guys who know me, guys I've most likely already kissed, and guys I definitely already know that I like. It wasn't until I got asked on a real, "What if he doesn't like me!?" gloss-over-my-high-school-marching-band-career, attempt-to-hide-the-fact-that-I-may-actually-be-insane date that I realized the extent to which I was in over my head.
Rewind to last spring. In the midst of the supercharged, slightly tipsy hook-up culture we call college, I had gotten to the point of spending approximately 38 percent of my time complaining about how romance is dead and why no one just asks me to dinner (Dewick does not count!) instead of propositioning me in the basement of SigEp. This was on the heels of a relationship (a generous characterization) with a guy who had no room in his proverbial closet for a formal suit jacket, much less a formal girlfriend or, God forbid, a formal date. So I was ready to lose it. I returned to Cleveland to begin my summer of lifeguarding, as cynical and disillusioned with the so-called dating world as a 20-year-old can be. Then came Tattoo Guy.
Tattoo Guy was a regular patron at my pool whom I regularly drooled over while I was supposed to be saving lives. I don't know if it was my snazzy one-piece, my juxtaposition with the other regulars — Stretched-Out Speedo Man and Dirty Braid Lady — or just the fact that being a lifeguard increases your hotness by 40 percent, but Tattoo Guy wanted to go on a date. With me.
Once I got over the initial shock of being asked for my number while on duty at the kiddie pool, I proceeded to behave in a very mature and appropriate manner by immediately relaying the details of our quasi-witty banter to the entire staff — which then assisted me in over-analyzing every word of it. I was going on my first actual date, which, unlike going somewhere with your lame high school boyfriend or emotionally unavailable college fling, involves presenting yourself for what is essentially the first time. I felt like a virgin all over again.
Long story short, we went on a date, but a quick look at my present bitterness-o-meter when I witness PDA will tell you that I am currently single. The tragic thing about Tattoo Guy is that he did everything right: He didn't wait too long to call, he took me out to dinner at my (unbeknownst to him) favorite restaurant, he paid in a non-awkward way, and he walked me home when it was done. We even made out a little on my front steps (OK, my parents' front steps), but it didn't take me long to figure out that while we had an abundance of aquatic skills between the two of us, we had absolutely nothing of something else: chemistry.
The moral of my first date? Just because you do something the "right" way (read: the way they did it on every episode of Dawson's Creek) doesn't mean it is right. The reality is that life is not a romantic comedy. I am not Bridget Jones, and there is no Mark Darcy, and now that I've accepted that, my love life, after years of "dating" and many a dramatic moment, can go on. I wouldn't brand my priorities as changed, but they have certainly gotten more complicated — there is now a delicate triage. Would I rather receive a charming invitation to a date than wade through the murky waters of awkward, ambiguous and usually intoxicated flirting? Probably. But would I sacrifice spark for sophistication? Never.
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Jessie Borkan is a junior majoring in clinical psychology. She can be reached at Jessie.Borkan@tufts.edu.
