In my humble opinion, the only acceptable first-date suggestions involve drinks (at a quiet bar) and maybe trivia so I can show off my “Jeopardy!” skills (those nights alone in middle school served me well). Doing something fancy or different may seem impressive at first, but keeping it simple will always be a better choice. So please take my advice and never, ever take someone (especially me) on a first date to one of these terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad places.
Everything is so small and expensive — two things that don’t really set the mood. I already have extremely strong opinions on sharing, a concept that sits at the very core of tapas’ business model. I end up feeling like a giant eating miniature food and, side note, chairs at tapas places are always really tiny. I don’t want to leave having had one patata brava and a half of a croquette. 10/10, would not recommend.
A Comedy Show
I like to laugh. I laugh at myself all of the time. But, god forbid we get seated at the front, not only will I be sweating profusely because of our proximity to the hot stage lights, but I will also spend the entire set worrying the damn comedian is going to pick on us. It starts with, “Oh, are you guys on a first date?” and progresses to him calling out my pools of perspiration until I just have to go die.
Even though talking goes against my lazy-girl aesthetic, the cinema does not allow for the free flow of conversation. The whole point of a date is getting to know the other person. If I wanted to sit in silence with a stranger, I’d go down south and hang out with my estranged cousin Bonnie.
A Loud Bar
In my free time, I’m an 86-year-old woman named Evelyn who lives alone and knits herself into a wool snuggie. There is absolutely no place in a loud bar for Evelyn/me. I won’t be able to hear you, let alone hear myself talk or think. Also, I am very sensitive to sound — my ears physically hurt when I enter an enclosed space housing a decibel level above 40. My mom thinks it’s a personality disorder and she’s absolutely right. It’s called misophonia.
I like art. I like museums. They’re quiet. And, as you may have ascertained, Evelyn loves the quiet. However, museums are almost too quiet. Like, we-can’t-talk quiet. You look mighty pretty, but I want to do more than stare at your face and an abstract painting. You know what else museums are? They are cold. And Evelyn can’t bring her crocheted onesie with her.