I’ve been planning this date for days and days: what will I wear? Where will we go? What will I wear? What will we eat? What will we do? What will I wear? Now at last it’s almost time to have the actual date and I am so sick of thinking about it that I don’t even want to go out with this guy anymore.
This was true for almost all my best first dates, and now it’s true for the trip as well. I have stalked Europe on the internet, talked to people who know him, tried hard to imagine what he might be like, considered carefully how to tailor my image to best suit his tastes, purchased entire outfits that he might enjoy seeing on me, and tried my best to plan every single second of our time together in spite of my avowed wish for a spontaneous evening/10 weeks.
But now I’m sick of it. No more guidebooks, pictures, hostel websites, shopping trips (except I do still need a bag and maybe some black flats) or speculations. I’m just going to show up wrassy-haired and smiling and see what Europe has to offer me. Maybe it will be a fabulous time. Maybe it will be bedbugs. But by god I am not going to worry about it anymore.
6 Responses to In which I calm the fuck down