I have a date tomorrow night with the Butthole Surfers guy.

In case you missed that entry, the nickname neither indicates that he is a butthole aficionado nor a member of the band The Butthole Surfers, merely a fan of the band.

He called last night, and seemed nice and somewhat funny and non-serial-killer-ish, so away we go.

The advent of this date sends me into Full-On Dating Mode, which is categorized in the DSM-IV as Severe Anxiety Disorder.

First and foremost, I have nothing to wear. Ignore the closet full of clothing behind me, damn it; for truly, it is all utterly useless.

What the hell is one supposed to wear on a first date? Clothing is supposed to send a message, and this particular outfit is supposed to say so very many things: I’m available, but not TOO available; I’m sexy, but not TOO sexy; I’m nice, but not TOO nice; I’m fun, I’m hip, I don’t have a ginormous ass and thighs that could break bricks…

It’s all so difficult and confusing.

My girlfriend suggested the last time I went on a first date that I wear some jeans, killer heels, and a cute top. I can get down with that, but WHICH JEANS? WHICH TOP? And my God, MY GOD, WHICH HEELS? You know I have at least fifty pairs to choose from!

I can’t handle these difficult decisions. Especially with only one day’s notice.

Then there is the matter of where we shall go. Butthole Surfers Dude lives in Buttfuck, Indiana, south of where I am moving. I live on the Sout’ Side. We are going for drinks, and I am supposed to pick the establishment. Every joint in my neighborhood that serves liquor is the sort of place that has cigarette butts on the floor, if you know what I’m saying.

I’m not saying that the bars are skanky, but most of the women have at least eight names tattooed on their asses, and the men have such whiskey-soaked red-rimmed eyes that you’d swear the devil was looking you in the face. They’re the sort of bars where you have to hold your handbag tightly to your chest as you politely turn down shot after shot after shot, blowing Marlboro fumes in the opposite direction and praying to God you don’t get raped in the parking lot on the way out.

That’s my ‘hood, and I’d rather he not see much of it, you know? So I’m thinking I’m going to have to make him drive even MORE, possibly even back south, or maybe downtown, so we can go somewhere decent. Agh.

So there’s that. And then there’s the fact that I tend to do one of two things when nervous: I either clam up or don’t stop talking at all.

There is nothing worse than a quiet bitch, except maybe a bitch who is all hi hey what’s up so how are you I’m good and how was your drive and wow I bet it took forever and how do you like living way out there I bet it’s nice and hey this beer is really good and wow these waitresses are so nice and this place is good don’t you think and I think so and I’ve never been here but I like it and I would definitely come here again and you seem quiet and am I talking too much and maybe I am and ha ha I’m a little nervous and oh wow I just can’t stop and ha ha somebody needs to just shut me up for real though.

GAH.

If you know me, you know how I do. It’s feast or famine.

Hopefully I will be able to control myself and speak at a reasonable pace, in a reasonable manner, and not be a douchebag.

Then there is the end of the date. Do I kiss? Do I not kiss? Does kissing imply that I am easy? Does not kissing imply that I’m a cold bitch?

I don’t KNOW these things! Shouldn’t I KNOW these things by now?

It’s all such a pain in the ass. I want some rules, damn it. I want a dating doctor to come over here, tell me what to wear, where to go, and how to act. That’s all I want.

Sigh.

I’m sure it’ll be OK.

I just need the Xanax.

Please send whatever you’ve got. Overnight shipping, please.

Happy Thursday.

8 Responses to “Dating, Or, I Need Xanax.”