D-Day

Some people might be put off by the idea that searching through personal profiles online is essentially shopping for a partner. Some people might argue it is dehumanising, insulting, unnatural and removes the emotional connection required to truly fall for another human being. I am not one of those people. I am a  born hunter-gatherer shopper. I browse, compare, eliminate options until I’ve narrowed down my search to just one item that’s attractive, functional, good quality and hopefully long lasting. I imagine the different ways the new thing is going to change my life and before I tell the sales person ‘I’ll take it’, whenever I can, I try before I buy.

So you can imagine how satisfying I find internet dating.

Technically, the site I am using is not a dating site. However, any arrangement which encourages two near-strangers to turn up to a mutually agreed upon public establishment under the guise of getting to know one another and feel incredibly awkward while pretending to be the best version of themselves, is a date. Whether they’re hoping to get laid at the end of the night or not.   

When my emails with one particular member progressed to the point of meeting face to face, I thought it might be wise to tell my housemate that I was about to go out with a man I’d only seen in photographs (probably). Whose surname and residential address I didn’t know. Who could have been a murderer, rapist,  accountant or born-again Chrisitan. My housemate had been happy for me until I drew her attention to these facts. I told her that if I didn’t come home she should tell the police that I was last out with a man named B. at a pub in Surry Hills. She didn’t appreciate the suggestion I might not make it back and made me promise that on the off chance I decided to willingly spend three days straight in a sex den, I had to send her a text because if I didn’t come home, now she would worry.

My potential sex den partner was a 37 year old personal trainer with a body that matched his job. Theoretically he was not my type, I tend to go for guys who look like the front man of an indie band who’s been too bored to eat for a fortnight. That said, from his profile picture my date looked to be everybody’s type. He had these biceps and a set of abs like you see on guys in perfume and jeans campaigns. Some of his photos actually looked like modelling shots, that or he knew how to hold his iPhone to get the most flattering angle ever.

The awkward sitting across from each other is hardly worth recapping. We had beers, he had biceps, he told me he lifted heavy things to make himself bigger because he was naturally very slim… (that’s real life irony, right?).

At five past ten I found myself on the footpath in front of a closed pub listening to B. saying those seven loaded words ‘the night doesn’t have to end here’. I felt like indecision personified. Did I want to sleep with him? I felt no obligation to, that wasn’t the problem. I was wondering whether I could move past the fact that I wasn’t overly attracted to him to the fact that within the hour I could be experiencing the kind of pleasure the girls who are with the guys in those perfume and jeans campaigns appear to be experiencing.

Despite the fact that he lived within walking distance, B. had decided to ride his motorbike to the pub (apparently he’s not much of a forward planner), which created something of a logistical quandary in terms of getting the three of us, him, me and his bike back to his place. In the end, I offered to follow his directions and meet him there. I’m a walker by nature, so that suited me just fine.

I listened to his instructions, I swear I was concentrating. But it was like the time I did work experience and had to deliver a parcel to a someone’s house. The office manager gave me the directions, I nodded along and then, I’m guessing, she noticed the blank look in my eyes because she asked me to repeat them. I was an adult, I was doing work experience because no one would give me a job and I had completely tuned out. What was wrong with me? Luckily some sort of subconscious survival instinct kicked in because I managed to not only repeat the directions but also find the address and make it back to the office. In this instance on Sunday night, those same survival instincts helped me out again.

I started out in the right direction, my mind working overtime, the roar of B’s motorbike fading into the distance. Then I realised, I had no idea what the first turn off was. So I kept walking. I walked for 45 minutes until I was at my front door. I was relieved to be there, on my own, knowing that the only loving I was going to experience was the polygamous kind, ‘Big Love’ on DVD. Oh and don’t worry, I send B. an apologetic text. I don’t think there were any hard feelings.

My housemate was relieved to see me. I recapped the evening, went to my room and there, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something black and shiny scuttling around the base of my dresser.

I’ll be the first to admit that my reaction to cockroaches is girliness overblown to the point that it’s like a drag-queen explosion. I managed to get the spray and attack the damn thing, but that only resulted in it careening about the floor, drunk and more unpredictable than ever. Thankfully, my housemate does not suffer from my kind of hysteria. She responded to my pitiful shrieks and within seconds had managed to flatten the thing with a sandal while I kind of twitched and spasmed about in a corner of the room thanking her in a way that sounded more like a chant. It’s the closest I ever come to speaking in tongues. But her good samaritanism didn’t end there.

‘If you have a tissue I’ll clean that up for you.’

Which made me think of an alternate way the evening could have ended. And you know, even with the cockroach I was still happy I’d chosen my home, my DVDs and that rather than a man with abs and a motorbike, it was my housemate offering to clean up the mess.