I’m getting ready for date three, and I can still hardly believe my luck. He’s funny, he’s charming and – are you hearing this? – he seems pretty keen on me too.
Yet the verb “getting” implies that I might actually be moving around a bit, and that’s one thing I’m certainly not doing. Quite the opposite in fact. I’m really just slumped in front of my wardrobe in my onesie with an obligatory pre-date tipple in hand (vodka and coke, naturally – always the strong stuff), hysterical over the fact that I have absolutely nothing to wear. Not a thing. Might even have to nip out and buy something new. Are the shops open? Probably not. It’s 8pm and we’re meeting in half an hour.
This is quite odd, because my wardrobe is literally stuffed with clothes. There are satin camisoles, silk dresses, velvet blazers, bodycon skirts, sheer blouses; polkadots, stripes, dogtooth prints; forgiving items for “the cellulite is winning” days, daring garments for “hey, what cellulite? My thighs are smooth and lovely, thanks very much!” days; bold “look at me” colours, darker “I’m complex and I’m brooding” shades. There’s even silky underwear for “I’m gonna woo him” and horrendous white cotton knickers for “he’s fucking lucky to have gotten this far! He’ll get what he’s given!”
My gran scolds me on a semi-regular basis for not chucking out some of my clothes, I’d really quite like to be a bit more cavalier and hope I could just rely on my fascinating insight (!) and universally appreciated sense of humour (!!!) to show off the best parts of myself, but I’m actually having a heated debate with myself over jeans or a skirt.
Sitting on the carpet, defeated and ever so gradually on my way from “charmingly tipsy” to “call this girl a cab, she’s gonna vom any minute now”, I eventually opt for a complex and brooding kind of look. I go for a black vest, black skinny jeans so tight they force my deflated bum into defying gravity and black ballet pumps. All black ensembles say “I’m pretty cool and all, but for your own good, you should absolutely fear me a little bit” and yeah, that’s something I think I’d definitely quite like to perpetuate.
But the agony isn’t over yet. I mean…what if things go, y’know – really well? “I must take you home and ravish you right now, you clever, fantastic creature!” kind of well? I know I might be getting a bit ahead of myself here but shouldn’t I be wearing some kind of incredible, flattering underwear? I have both frilly frenchies and some big, tan coloured pants not unlike those donned by Bridget Jones. It’s a tough one to call. Frenchies might be hot but they’re wildly impractical; the tan coloured, roughly quilt-sized pants maybe aren’t so minxy but at least I’ll be comfortable. I come back down to earth and opt for the latter, anyway.
But really, the ridiculousness of this kind of situation doesn’t escape me; are clothes really all that important for a date? I mean, I like to think he’d be more interested in what I have to say for myself as opposed to what colour tights I’m wearing (grey or black? It’s a tricky one) but yet I’m still agonizing over my outfit as though I’m off to the Partick Tavern for a drink with Obama, not some lad off the internet. Do clothes really maketh the man – or in this case, the frantic woman?
I consult the people of the internet. “I’d say the first date is the most important for clothes, to be honest” says a Facebook friend. “Clothes kind of are the reflection of who a person is”. Right, “reflection of who the person is” – noted. Another agrees, claiming outfits are a “peek at somebody’s personality….it’s really interesting”. qmunicate’s own music editor claims to be “super chill” about dressing for dates but actually “agonizes to the point where I almost hate myself and everything I own”. Hey, sounds familiar! Maybe I’m not so alone in this ridiculous regime, after all.
Anyway, it’s no matter, because the all black ensemble may well have gone down a storm. Perhaps there’s something a bit racy about the aesthetic mix of pretentious drama student and what can only be described as “Kim Possible chic”, because he ends up coming back to mine. Just as the awkward first few minutes pass of wondering if it’s all a big mistake and if I should fake some vodka and coke related nausea, things start to heat up. But as we move from one side of the room, his shoe gets tangled in something. He looks down.
It’s my Frenchies.
[Floraidh Clement – @FloraidhCC]