Oh, how I loathe dating, or as I refer to it, what am I doing in this unnecessarily dark karaoke bar with this man who is wearing a fedora inside and smoking an e-cigarette.

It is my least favourite of the human interaction rituals. It’s pretty rare that I’ll look in my calendar, see that I’ve scheduled a friend hang out and proceed to break out into “fear of small-talk about Netflix” hives. But this is a common reaction to me remembering I have agreed to begin a potentially romantic union with another breathing body.

If only asking people out was not a catalyst for humping them.

My dislike of this custom is why I typically do the dirty deed with folks I’m already familiar with – so I don’t have to engage in chatter about what kind of phone they own and why they enjoy it. Familiar folks include friends, colleagues, exes, bartenders, IT guys, Wine Rack employees, that guy who works at that taco place, H&R Block accountants, etc.

But makin’ sweet tax-free love with persons I see frequently does take its toll in that I can’t escape them when the shit hits the fan. When that happens I head back out into the world of sending/receiving Facebook proposals to share alcohol with basic strangers.

Why do I despise these proposals? What drives me so nuts about them? Only all of the below, gentle reader!

Pre-date “prove that I’m clever” texting banter stresses me out
Whenever a dude finds out I’m a comedian they instantly reply with “Cool do you like Louis C.K…I want to do stand-up everyone in my office says I’m funny…tell me a joke.” Then comes the witty repartee that is required of me to be, as they say, “not a waste of Tinder time”.

It goes somethin’ like “Here’s an activity I participate in” “And here’s my response to your activity with MY obviously hyperbolic, goofy activity”, “Expert use of emoticon”, “Pop culture reference”, “Adorable sexual innuendo”, “Callback” and “Repeat”. If either of us fail this test or make a typo it is mutually understood that we will not speak again.

Pick a location that shows I’m cool, yet hip 
I’m broke, so my suggestions for date locales are usually “I like this bar – the atmosphere is great” which translates to “This is a big time crap pub but pitchers are $11.00 so please say yes and don’t suggest a cocktail lounge.” Luckily, divey holes in the wall have turned into trendy hangouts. But I gotta make sure when choosing said bar that it is the “I want to make-out in the sorta smelly basement” dive, not “ I fear I’m going to contract a skin-eating disease from the tables” dive. Thus, pressure is involved.

Figuring out what materials to drape on my body
My date wardrobe consists of black pants, black shirts, a semi-formal dress from high school, and a single pair of leopard print underwear that saw the light of day once when I used them to soak up spilt tea.  I ask myself questions like “Should I dress up? Will HE be dressed up? Will he be dressed at all?” I typically try to stay comfortable and end up slipping into old laundry, then I exit my home and immediately regret everything.

The dreaded actual start of the date
This is how it usually plays out. I walk in. He stands to greet me. I’m already sitting down. I stand back up. I go in to hug. He shakes my hand. What the hell is going on. We head butt. I laugh. He doesn’t.

Then mind-numbing, excruciatingly dull, wanting to poke eyes out conversation
If I have to engage in one more 2-hour long chat about Breaking Bad I am going to Heisenberg myself over a cliff. No offense to Vince Gilligan, but I cannot handle discussing his show at length for several dates in a row any more than I can handle discussing my parents having sex. If the only talks we can generate are 100% related to Bryan Cranston’s talents, let’s split this bill and call it quits.

Having to force interest in each other’s interests
And while we’re on the topic of AMC being the sole commonality that binds us together, let me say that it’s UNBELIEVABLY RIDICULOUS that you (my date) do not like playing euchre or eating fried foods or reading books that aren’t the Internet. But yeah, it’s cool we both have fun walking… from one destination… to the next. Yay… soul… mates… is… us.

The Silence of the Awkward
Although no noise between strangers makes me quiver with anxiety, it gets to a point where I’ll take that anxiety over blathering on about the city we both live in and how beer is good and how weather changes. Sometimes I’ll toss in a “this bread is delicious” even if there isn’t any bread on the table just to keep myself from fainting but that’s the limit to my giving once we’re this far gone.

The Smooch of the Devil
We stand in front of my house for approximately a millenium. Eventually, one of us grows some courage and goes in for the plunge. “Take it easy with the tongue,” I think. But he doesn’t. “Should I increase the tongue so we’re on the same playing field?” I think. But I don’t. This goes on for five minutes, for which the entire time I’ve been wondering “Did I pay that Rogers bill? Hmm. Phones are weird. I’m going to ponder about phones more…. weird.”

Terrifying Peck leads to Terrifying Intercourse
It’s not always the case that the first sex is the worst sex. But 98% of the time, it is. Can it improve? Oh sure. Anything can improve with practice. Will I allow it to continue if our missionary style boinking is off rhythm to the extent that I feel we’ve become a human see-saw made by a confused drunk elephant? No.