Posted on August 27, 2017
There are many great career options to pursue in life: doctor, lawyer, chicken nugget scientist, and, my personal favourite, trophy wife. I came across a guy on Bumble who claimed to be an ‘aspiring fuckboy’; and I just can’t swipe left on an ambitious man. We started talking and he was pretty fucking funny, joking about being a fuckboy, fidget spinners and shirtless selfies. Instead of just texting the whole time and then inevitably ignoring each other, we agreed to go on a date. My second actual date in Sydney, can I get an Amen?
We decided on meeting up for drinks on a Saturday night, but as the evening drew closer, he texted me he might not be able to make it. I absolutely did not mind at all, as it was already 8pm and I still hadn’t even bothered to take a shower – we had agreed on 8:30pm, oops. We rescheduled for next Wednesday, and kept in touch.
When Wednesday came, I was not nervous at all. I assumed it couldn’t be that terrible, and even if it was, I had asked to meet up in a bar about 500m from my house – I could just run home if necessary. He was already there when I arrived: nice smile, technically good physique, and overall pretty cute. He had that kind of hair that made you think he might go bald early on in life, but who cares about that – I’m not planning on sticking around for that long. The hair comment sounds shallow, I know; maybe even a little bit mean, you’re right – but I got nice hair yow, gotta think of my future babies. The poor things might need a nose job, I can’t afford to have them have bad hair too.
I have to admit that I was a bit worried, though. He was 22, which is like 14 in boy’s years, and still in Uni. There were a few very frat boy-y stories about drinking and partying, but hey, it’s not because I’m such a grandma who likes to be in bed by 10pm, that we all have to be like that. All in all, it was pretty good. I didn’t run home, didn’t even speed walk out of there. I didn’t have to leave to go ‘feed the cats’ or ‘water the plants’. When I left the bar, my cheeks hurt because I had been laughing the whole evening; I mean, 90% of the time because of my own jokes of course, but that still counts.
We’ve been texting since and are supposed to go out again next week. My apologies that this has been a pretty uneventful post – apparently good dates are way harder to cover than bad ones. Anyway, stick around, one of us is bound to screw this up!
Sometimes the best dates are those you want to keep to yourself because you are afraid talking about a good thing will make it all go away.