Not terribly long ago it struck me that it’s been about a year since I’ve gone on a proper date.
I should clarify, a proper first date.
There are so many reasons for this.
Most deeply personal—not understood by even my closest confidantes.
But a year goes by. And a boy kisses you. And it feels so good.
I mean, the thing is, I forgot how a kiss can be so simple and easy and fun. And satisfying.
Mostly because the kisses this year have been anything but.
Which should have been a clue.
But we learn how we learn.
So, should a first date come along, I think I might say yes.
I think I might want to say yes.
But I want to wear a dress.
And I want it to be fancy—almost inappropriately so. Inappropriate because no one ever dresses up for anything anymore, and how terribly disappointing that is.
Let the man wear a suit. A nice one. (Tie optional).
Let us, middle of July, dress like it’s New Years Eve. And drink like it’s a new beginning. (Or a very good end).
I want the restaurant to be just cold enough that he has to offer me his jacket. Has to drape it over my shoulders. And do that thing, that men do, where they stand behind you and ever-so-inexpertly rub your arms.
It won't matter where we choose to eat. It could be McDonald’s. Or the Corner Bistro. (In fact, I’m partial to burgers).
I just want, for a single night, to feel young and foolish and exquisitely beautiful.
Just for a night I’d like to be the sort of couple that other people look at—wistfully, longingly, knowingly. That other people regard with a sort of fondness, remembering their own youth—remembering that time the future rolled out before them like an invitation.