Decisions, Decisions

Merlot. I’ll serve him Merlot.

But what if he’s a white wine person? Or even Rose? That’s the problem with first dates, you just don’t know.

Sure you message a bit on the app Flirt a little. But basically all you have to form an impression from are their three most flattering photos and whatever lies they’ve put in their Tinder bio. Stuff like: “7-foot tall astronaut who moonlights as Pula Rudd’s stunt double looking for someone to help raise his 6 beautiful dogs?” Then you meet them an discover they’re a 3-foot tall serial killer, with a ferret and chance of doubling for Paul Giamati than Paul Rudd.

Riesling? Everyone likes Riesling. Except… do they? What’s the most popular, mainstream, down-the-line wine? I guess it depends what kind of vibe I want to give off. Red means I’m warm and inviting. White means I’m fun and independent. I have no idea what rosé means.

Maybe I’m overthinking it. I swear I overthink everything. Other people are out choosing drinks and having dates with no problems. Meanwhile, I have to send out a draft of my dating bio to three of my friends before I even felt comfortable signing up to Tinder. I only stopped sending the draft around when one of my friends replied with “Fucksake, it’s fine”. A little rude, but in her defence it was 2AM.

Cabernet? Pinot Grisio? God I wish we were still at uni. Then we could just sit in a cheap flat getting wasted off a bottle of Lambrini. Or, if it was a really tight month, White Strike.

But no, by 30 people expect you to have your shit together. At least enough to pick a real bottle of wine for a date.

Muscat? Maybe, not sure. Is that even a wine? Muscat: sounds more like some sort of furry creature in Star Wars.

To be honest, I’m not sure I’m any sort of expert when it comes to wine. The terminology is just so confusing: ‘Does this wine have legs?’ No, of course not. It’s a drink, not Shergar.

Hmm, I can’t help shaking the feeling I’ve forgotten something. No, can’t think about that now, have to pick a wine.

Bordeaux? That sounds nice. It’s a nice bit of France. I think. I’ve never actually been. I was supposed to go once. I remember because it took me so long to pack my bags. I just couldn’t decide what clothes to bring: beachwear? Summerwear? Sightseeing-wear? Was it going to be cold? Warm? That weird nothing-y weather where it’s neither warm nor cold? In the end I spent so long obsessing I nearly ran out of time to reach the airport. I decided to just pay for an extra suitcase: that way I could take everything. So I bundled almost my entire wardrobe into my bags and lugged them all the way to the airport. Then I reached the check-in desk and realised I hadn’t packed my passport.

Chianti? Right, I need to just pick a bottle. Meritage? Wow, I really have a lot of wine.

I wish he hadn’t made me choose what we do for our first date. I mean there’s so many options. Do you do the classic meet up for drinks at a bar? Is that too boring? Do you do a meal? Is that too forward? Do you go for something wacky to show that you’re different? Even if you settle on something wacky, what do you go for? Axe-throwing sounds cool, but I don’t want to give off the impression I’m some sort of feral Viking lady. Mini-golf could be fun, but I’d spend the whole time deciding whether to beat him and seem competent or let me win and stop him getting upset. And sky-diving is definitely out: I’d keep micro-managing when to pull the cord.

It can’t be normal to worry this much about every silly little thing. Maybe I should meditate or something. I remember I did try to take up meditation one time, but I couldn’t decide which class to go to: hot yoga, Kundalini yoga, hatha yoga? So I opted out and sat out home eating spaghetti out of the pan.

Chardonnay? I shouldn’t have told him to come to my place. Now I have to worry about making sure the flat looks presentable. But also, not so tidy that he thinks I’m a clean freak. And I have to decide what items to leave lying around so he can notice them. Maybe I could leave one of my books on the coffee table to prompt a conversation about it. But which book? Something smart? Something fun? Something… naughty?

Arrgh, it’s too much to think about. As if getting myself ready and choosing an outfit wasn’t enough to worry about.

Sometimes I resent having to have a body. Life would be so much easier if I could float around as a sentient ball of gas. I’d kill it as a non-corporeal being. Instead of having to pilot this meat cage all day, worrying about moisturising, and shampooing, and shaving.

Zinfandel? Yes, that’ll set the mood nicely. In fact I think it’s… wait, was that the door? Oh god, the door just rang. That’s him. And now I’ve gone off the zinfandel. You know what, let’s just do the merlot.

He’s rung again. Seems a little impatient. Or have I been longer than I realised. I can lose track of time. And I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve forgotten something. That something isn’t perfect. Still, at least it’s not the wine.

Okay, answer the door. What greeting should I offer? “Hello”? “Heya”? “A fine evening my good man”… no, that’s definitely out. Oh damn, I wish I could remember what I’ve forgotten.

Shit, I’m opening the door. Let’s go with “How Are You” or “How’s It going?” Both very casual. But which should I choose? “How Are You?” “How’s It Going?” “How Are You?” “How’s It Going?” Aaargh, just pick one:

‘Hi Liam. How’s it are you?’ Damn.

Why’s he looking at me like that? Was it what I said? Surely he’s not going to hold that against me?

He’s still looking at me weird. Now he’s looking down. What’s wrong. What did I forget? Wait, he’s opening his mouth, what’s he gonna say:

‘Hi Julia… um… did you mean to answer the door without any trousers on?’