Dates and Dinosaurs and Douche-Baggery

I went on a first date last night.  It was the perfect first date.  Perfect.  Not only did we have great conversation, but he was also sweet and gentle towards me.  We really clicked, I felt.  He thought so too.  I think.

All credit goes to my Curious George socks.  I typically wear weird socks on first dates.  Usually underneath the outfit I have spent hours perfecting one can find odd, mismatched socks.  No date of mine has ever seen the socks.  They are my secret.  And though I sometimes joke that the socks serve as a chastity belt, really they are there to make me feel more comfortable and more like me.  They failed me a few months ago when I went on a first date, probably because I went straight from a root canal to the guy's house without taking any pain killers.  Not even dinosaur socks are prepared for that much pressure.  He asked me where I'd live if I could live anywhere and I opted for a candy castle in the sky.  The dinos were retired after that.  So were root canals.  Anyway, doesn't matter...on to Curious George.  

Curious George and I came home grinning and I only stopped sometime today.  I am a little wary to  post anything about guys I date because I never can be sure who is reading this our how secure my "anonymity" really is, but I suppose if he does find this, this post is the least of my concerns (in comparison to other posts, that is).

Anyway, I came home from my date smiling like the smitten little mung bean that I am to a roommate who was anxious to hear all about it.  I had sent her a text earlier while driving home while in my parked car that read, "Best first date ever" and she was expecting to hear a magnificent tale involving limos and ponies and rainbows and Paris.  It had none of that and she simply blinked at me as I mapped out the night for her.  After I finished, she said that any guy that didn't shove me into a broom closet (no guy has ever actually done that to me, mind you) ranked "top notch" on my list and he got way too many points for doing the basics that every guy should do.  He paid.  He walked me to my car.  He was kind and gentle and respectful.  Those are basics.  And those are foreign to me.

I was talking with a roommate today about a guy she is kind of seeing.  She also described qualities he has that most would deem "basic" that she found nothing short of astounding.  He cares for her when she is sick.  He respects physically boundaries.  He has genuine interest in her emotional well being.  Basics.  Yet she too was shocked and, honestly, frightened by them.  She won't actually date him because he is too good to her.  How is it that we have gotten to places in life that we expect and want only guys who dabble in douche-baggery?  Forget dabbling, they're drowning in it.

Perhaps the issue isn't us.  Perhaps the issue is that the so-called "basics" have run scarce.  Perhaps the quality  of the male standard model has depleted as time has gone on and it is foolish to hold out for the bedazzled Prince Charming edition.  I've been thinking about that all day - all through church, all through baking, all through the minutiae my day.  For now I suppose I'm okay putting to rest the thoughts.  Either way, whether or not the date from last night is standard or jewel-encrusted, he was kind to me and he was fun and I am happy.  He has already relayed twice since last night that he wants to see me again.  I should be happy.  I am happy.  I think.

Why do girls long to be treated like trash?  Why do we reject guys for being too kind?  Because it feels wrong and foreign and alien.  Like a bad Katy Perry song.  That's the only answer I've got.  At least for now. In the meantime, maybe I'll test out those dinosaur socks again.  Maybe they're more cut out for second date pressure.