Tag Archives: stood up

33 things your date will worry about while waiting for you to turn up

1. “All his photos were taken from quite far away. I hope he’s not a horse-frightener.”

2. “I hope he was joking when he described himself as a flâneur. Because seriously.”

3. “Does my stomach look fat while I sit like this?”

4. “Should I stand up when he gets here so he can see I’m actually quite ripped?”

5. “Should I get a drink while I’m waiting, or hang on until he gets here?”

6. “What should I drink? What will make me look more desirable?”

7. “Maybe I shouldn’t have gone for Tia Maria & Lucozade.”

8. “Will he be able to tell I haven’t brushed my teeth?”

9. “Why did I have onions at lunch?”

10. “Is my voice deep enough?”

11. “If he felt the need to point out he was straight-acting, does this mean if I mention Kylie or Madonna or the fact I like clothes he’ll be annoyed?”

12. “Do I really want to be on a date with someone who says they’re straight-acting?”

13. “I’m sure he used ‘whilst’ in a text the other day. Should I point out how much this annoys me? I know I shouldn’t, but… come on.”

14. “I hope he’s not one of those ones who bang on about their exes all the time.”

15. “If I mention my ex, will he immediately assume I’m not over it?”

16. “Am I over it?”

17. “I am over it. OK, good. How do I look as if I’m really over it?”

18. “How soon into the date can I swear for the first time?”

19. “I wonder if he’s going to be one of those guys who uses really elaborate swear-words. I hate that.”

20. “Should I use the c-word to see if he gasps?”

21. “He’s late. Am I in the right pub?”

22. “If I text to make sure I’m in the right pub, will it look like I am passively-aggressively reminding him he is late?”

23. “This text I’m about to send to ask where he is – kiss on the end or not?”

24. “Maybe two kisses? Is that too many?”

25. “What if he starts on about Lady Gaga?”

26. “What if he doesn’t mention Lady Gaga?”

27. “Is my job interesting enough?”

28. “If I go on about my job, will it look like I’m bragging?”

29. “What slang should I use? I’m too old for ‘sick’, I know. Is ‘cool’ OK?”

30. “Is he late because he doesn’t care about being on time because he doesn’t think it will go anywhere?”

31. “Should I play it cool or play it hot?”

32. “I bet he’s lying about his age. Should I have lied about mine?”

33. “Seriously, where is he?”

So maybe it’s best if you arrive first, or before he goes off you entirely.

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Overthinking 101: The perils of late-date paranoia

Traffic. Broken alarm clocks. Dead grandmothers. All things which can be wheeled out as an excuse when you’re running late. I try to avoid lateness if at all possible, especially on dates. While I accept it can be unavoidable, lateness which comes as a result of disorganisation appears rude or selfish. If your beau isn’t doing his best to turn up at a date on time, imagine how self-centred and lacklustre he’ll be when taking up space on your king-size mattress.

The most important thing to remember when you’re running late for a date is not how stressful your journey across town is, or how the entire transport industry is conspiring against you. No, you must keep in mind that while the minutes (and hopefully it is just minutes and not hours) tick away, somebody somewhere is waiting for you. They’re trying not to look at their watch. Their eyes are fixed anywhere but the door you’ve still not walked through. They’re wondering what’s going on (although you really should have texted to say you were running late – you did that, right?) and glaring into their pint glass.

When a date is late, for whatever reason, it can play havoc with your grey matter. Your capacity to overthink suddenly increases tenfold; your imagination expands to such a worrying degree that you could quite happily do a screenplay for a five-hour sequel to Lost set in the inner ear of a ladybird while you wait. Where are they? What are they doing? And can you sneak in one more drink before they arrive? If they arrive.

Environment can be a harmful factor in this heightened state of consciousness. Think about it: you’re sitting in a pub, alone. If you’re the industrious type, you’ve already secured a table or a place to sit. The empty seat opposite you – an upholstered void – taunts you sadistically, like a cat lifting its tail and gleefully showing you its puckered arsehole.

Not to mention your fellow drinkers or diners, all matched up in pairs like your socks used to be when your mother still did your laundry. Or, better still, in groups, all friends together, a sitcom cast in waiting. The sociable hyenas scope you out with their curious gaze – equal parts true sympathy and the smugness  of an oil baron’s wife – before returning to the huddle, placing bets on why you’re alone and how long your mortification is going to last.

Perhaps your date is just unreliable. It doesn’t bode well for things progressing beyond this initial date, does it? Are you to spend endless hours waiting for him, gawping at clocks and marvelling that your powers of telekinesis can’t make the cogs whirr a little faster? How else will he let you down? Will he fall over in the crockery section at John Lewis and take every plate and glass with him? Is he likely to forget to pay all his bills and end up moving his dirty duffle bag  – and oh my goodness is that a guitar –  into your bachelor pad? Will he talk about fellatio in front of your father? If you can’t trust him to walk through the door at a pre-appointed time, then you can’t trust him to do anything, can you? He’s already ruined your life and you haven’t shaken his hand yet. Bastard.

Or maybe he’s just not into you. He’s had longer to peruse your profile picture; he’s had second thoughts. Like a carton of milk left on the windowsill in July, you’ve gone off. Now that he’s had time to think about it, he’s changed his mind. To stand you up would be churlish, so he feels he may as well come along anyway; after all, you might be worth a roll in the hay if he gets drunk enough. But he’s certainly not going to break his neck to get there. Clark Kent sped across the universe to get to his precious Lois Lane, but your date is trundling across town with all the velocity of a shopping trolley with a wobbly wheel – it’s not exactly encouraging.

Was it something you said? You flick back over your last text messages, scanning them with the precision of the Enigma codebreaking machine, desperately searching for the trigger word that has turned your date from a keen bean into a don’t-care bear. Every nuance, every comma scrutinised for a sign that may enlighten you. But there are none. You put away your phone. Unless… Out comes the phone again. No, no, you’re being silly; your texts are literary velvet. Your rapier wit should have him panting at your feet like Lassie after a pilates class. Right. So where is he?

Just as your imagination takes it to the next level, which sees your date trapped in a bank heist or saving a bunch of orphans from a burning building, he arrives. You surreptitiously inspect his forehead for beads of sweat; has he really raced to get here? You’re torn between revulsion at having to shake his perspiring palm and pleasure that he at least made an effort in his quest to reach you. You try not to gush that you’re glad he finally made it or, worse, appear over-nonchalant, as if it doesn’t matter when he turns up and you’d wait an eternity just to get a glance at his belt buckle. You feel a bit giddy. Sit down.

He offers to buy you a drink. He walks away to the bar. Nice bottom. Finally, you breathe.

The Invisible Man

Sometimes you have those periods where you don’t have a date for what seems like decades. Then, before you know it, you’re swamped. A mere 24 hours after my bizarre, yet fun, adventure with the drama teacher, I am once more heading to a date. I might as well get my kicks while I’m young enough to get them, right?

This next guy is someone I wouldn’t say I’m particularly interested in, looks-wise. His pictures seem OK, if a little blurred, but his profile is funny and the emails and texts we have been exchanging have been good-natured and definitely on my wavelength. He also seems very interested — I’m still at the stage in my dating ‘career’ where someone being keen is an attractive trait to me — and so, after less than a week of chatting, we agree to meet for a drink and, if we’re not horrified at the sight of each other, go on to dinner. Continue reading The Invisible Man

The Drunk Mexican

Stats: 5’10″, 32, black/brown, Mexico
When: Saturday 31 July, 1pm and 10.30pm
Where: South-east London
Pre-date rating: 7/10

The dates are becoming more and more disillusioning as time goes on, to be honest. This one is a little different from the others, though. I meet him on a different site, one where you know less information about your potential date, but you talk through instant messenger, rather than emails. (Edit: Grindr – why am I so afraid to say Grindr?!) We seem to get on well, at first missing each other and not being online at the same time, but showing mutual appreciation. When we finally do talk ‘live’, he’s away on business in Germany. We arrange to meet in a pub, round the corner from my house, as he also lives locally, the following Saturday at 1pm. He says he likes an afternoon pint. Nice.

I walk into the pub precisely three minutes late and there is no sign. I order a pint — even though the last thing I want to do is drink — and sit outside in the sun. From where I’m sitting, I have all entrances to the pub covered. I half look out for him and half mess about with my phone. It gets to 1.10pm, and alarm bells are ringing. I realise I don’t have his mobile number. How stupid of me. I message him via the website and say I’m here. Time ticks on. No response. I sit and finish my pint, reading in the sun and wondering what on Earth is going on. By now, it’s 1.45pm and he’s clearly not coming. Furious but not wanting to show my anger, I send him a message telling him that I’m leaving now and that it was a shame that he couldn’t make it. Continue reading The Drunk Mexican