Who knew the anticipation of meeting someone could make a person so wonky inside? Yes, I said wonky. I have all this . . . stuff just sitting inside my chest, all these incredibly fun and fabulous and frightening thoughts inside my head. Maybe it's because of all the advice I've been given in the last 48 hours:
"Look stunning."This from a guy. What does this mean? There's no red carpet, no acceptance speech. Remember, simple girl on the outside, maybe some complexities on the inside. I do admit to a fascination with sexy pirates and vamps. But I digress. I need specifics, people. What articles of clothing would equal stunning? Hair and makeup? How do I do stunning? Is this a requirement?
"Be innocent and shy, and in total control."BWAAAAA-HAHAHAHA. And I thought this guy knew me. Innocent, like Scarlet, sugar. Shy, what is that? In total control, I don't even have that with the remote. Then he mentioned I shouldn't talk so much. Okay, he does know me. I promise to be demure.
"Wear something sleazy so he'll be speechless."This from a guy too. Sleazy would leave him speechless, all right. Not quite what I'm going for. Can't be too conservative either. So somewhere in the vast expanse of rockin' first date attire there has to be something for me to wear, right? I'm just not sure it's in my closet.
"Wear something black. It will make your skin glow!"Shheeeyyaaahh! No likey too much sun these days. Miscreant youth spent in way too much sun.
Then there was this conversation with my daughter Scoots, bringing 4-inch turquoise stilettos out of her Smithsonian-style shoe museum . . .
Scoots: You gotta wear these!
Me, trying them on at her dogged insistence: Holy crap, I can't even stand in these. I'll look like a Barbie doll, and I'll walk like one too.
Scoots: No, no. I have a secret. Take flipflops and leave them in the car. Wear the stilettos into the restaurant – ten minutes on your feet coming and ten going. If he wants to go somewhere else, you say, "These shoes are killing me. I think I have something more comfortable in the car." Then you go to the car. "Oh, looky there! Flipflops!"
Me, with blank look: Seriously?
Scoots, taking a drag on her beer: Oh yeah.
Then from my daughter's 20-something buddies:
"Go for the wax job. Guys love it."First I have to stop laughing. People, this is a first date!
And finally:
"Play up the girls."Now that I can do. Dinner at 7.
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Update: It was Chardonnay and meteors of the heart-pounding kind. And let's say that when I got home, jumped into bed, and tried to finish off a Stephanie Plum novel, I had to reread the same three pages a dozen times because thoughts of him kept intruding. I likey that boy.
