First dates are like interviews. They are potentially the most intensely judgemental examinations we can subject ourselves to, initiating an interrogation from head to toe on whether those genes you were so generously blessed or cursed with will correspond sufficiently with what he’s potentially looking for… whether your pheromones are the right ones to get him going…whether over the years you’ve accumulated the ‘right’ skill set that will integrate well with his means of life whilst not intimidating his modern integrity in supporting himself… but what is he about to invest in?
We spend so much time deliberating on making ourselves the perfect product we forget to shop wisely ourselves… often buying into the first viable option that comes along, lusting over gleaming exteriors when really as much false advertising occurs on the dating market as it does anywhere else… but we’re too busy swooning over the prices and how something appearing oh-so-perfect on the outside can come so cheap so easily, and we forget that they’ve adorned their own packaging as meticulously as we have ourselves.
Dating is quite simply the most shattering, exhaustive tests of life, and yet we subject ourselves to the same stress time and time again. What is it that drives us to want to risk the pain that comes with love? Deep down are we all just masochists? Why do we feel the need to project a façade on our potential mates in the first place? It’s like we’d rather manipulate them, trapping them into investing into something promising to be so much better than it really ever could be.
Have first dates not become mildly redundant now? If we insist on following the same script of pleasantries… sorry I don’t exploit my sex for the purpose of disillusioning a man I’m genetically and materialistically sufficient enough to be his mate. We go to every extreme in an attempt to conceal our real truths behind make-up and clingy vestige. Making all this effort whilst we remain oblivious to the fact we’re each soothing the same wounds, the same hurts, feeling the need to conceal how we really feel, projecting this façade until we’re happy enough with this ‘someone’ to let our hair down and reveal our inner demons, only when it’s too late for our captives to escape the clasps of the co-dependency they have now formed upon our unrequited souls. Are we partner ensnarers… just like black widow spiders and venus fly traps?
Is the reality that we are all just predators seeking the same thing? Are we prepared enough to pretend anything in order to achieve that status of partnership? We allure our potential mates with false promises of what they’re investing in from the start, selling the ‘I’m a culinary genius’ act on the initial date… but they can’t return the ‘recipe illiterate disaster’ after they’ve bought into ‘exhibition A’ already. There’s no refund policy on love… camouflaging ourselves within idiolects and fashion statements… changing colour to fit the scene when really we might belong backstage. Are we all just that uncomfortable in our own skin?
We’re surrounded by mutual masks day in day out. We might catch the same train as they do every morning or take our coffee the same way from the same store at the same meticulous intervals during the day and even acknowledge this but we’d probably never approach a familiar face without our own mask on, or some form of armour to protect us from the potential tug of rejection that we all feel.
We don’t go on first dates – our alter ego goes, that popular kid at school with the cool bike who headlines the band and has all the confidence in the world, she gets tucked away behind the extra supportive push-up bra making her boobs look twice as perky and the extra strength granny suck-in pants which makes her tummy look twice as toned.
First dates really happen the first time your partner encounters you in your pyjamas with bed head hair..the reality is that those two people that turned up at the ‘once upon a time’ first date won’t exist by the time it’s come to the big finale, marriage.
The Spanish have a saying – “Cuando se trata de amor, hablamos el mismo idioma, pero eligimos no comunicar”. When it comes to love we all speak the same language, and yet we choose not to communicate.
Images reproduced from mindthis.ca
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