Aside from the requisite lip gloss, wallet, and keys, there are a few other must-haves in my handbag. Dating is serious business y’all. It’s critical I keep a well-stocked arsenal on hand.
No, I don’t pluck my eyebrows on a date (or ever actually… are you picturing me with a Kahlo-esque unibrow right now?). But when it’s patio season in Texas, you can bet every date will suggest drinks outside. Just when I’m feeling confident that I’ve arranged myself to my best advantage on the sticky plastic chair that causes my thighs to sweat more than is seemly, I notice that errant hair twisting up near my ankle. Y’all, it’s like a Sasquatch hair. I swear it’s way thicker than any other leg hair I’ve ever grown and it has somehow evaded the razor for what must be weeks on end. How the hell did I miss it?! And so, bathroom break, tweezers. I wish I could tell you this had only happened to me one time in the past…
A Compact Mirror
You might never meet another person who touches their nose more than I do. And it’s because of this: I fear a visible… crusty. A bat in the cave, if you will. When I get really paranoid, I can’t focus on anything else. There was that time I dated someone for a month and couldn’t recall why he had joint custody of his dog. There was a story he’d recounted on our way to a play, but my mind was otherwise engaged. Surely, a bat was hanging out, and I’d been debating just how ginormous that bat must be. Was it a dangler? Was it lodged on the side, waiting to fling itself out of my schnoz the moment I laughed? Perhaps it was only a fluttery little thing, but moving enough that it would distract my date? Gone from my memory were the 15 minutes of conversation wherein the presence of the little white fluffball of a dog was explained. This, spinster friends, is why I take a compact mirror. Screw powdering my nose or touching up my lip gloss. One must be able to confirm an empty cavity, and a compact mirror ensures I become a deeper listener.
An Extra Pair of Underwear
I’m not entirely sure why these are needed. It’s not like I’ve ever crapped my pants, but maybe this is all those years of Girl Scout training, telling me you can never be too prepared.
My Cell Phone
…with Grace’s number on speed dial and text messages to my mother, sister, grandmother, best friend, coworker, supermarket bagger, and bank teller, detailing key identifiers of my date. You know. Just in case he turns out to be an axe* murderer.
6:03 P.M. His name is Michael. He’s returning from the pistol range, which means he probably owns a gun.
6:24 P.M. Full name is Michael William Throckmorton IV. He drives a 7-series BMW. I’m not sure what that says about him, other than the fact that he has money, but you should probably be on alert. He could do away with me and nobody would suspect the successful dude.
6:26 P.M. For the record, I don’t care that he has money. I’m successful enough on my own. But you know this. But I had to clarify. Right.
7:08 P.M. We made it to the restaurant. No signs of zip ties or plastic bags.
9:55 P.M. He wants to show me the “art” in his apartment. Should I be concerned? Is this a euphemism for something else? What if he keeps hooks o’torture in his closet?
10:02 P.M. Earth to Grace! I have to make a decision here!
10:16 P.M. Ok, executive decision made. We’re on the way to his apartment.
10:37 P.M. Damn it, I forgot to check his apartment number. We’re in the middle of the complex, down one of the halls. 3rd floor. His door faces someone who has a Hello Kitty wreath.
10:38 P.M. Also, why does he live in an apartment if he drives a 7-series?
12:11 A.M. So… he really did just show me his art. OMG. What does that say about me?! Shouldn’t he have tried to get my pants off? I wore mesh panties! That should count for something!
12:14 A.M. The panties are really cute. Remind me to send you the link.
12:31: A.M. OK I’m home. Damn it. The cats say hello.
Speaking of cats…
An Industrial Lint Roller
If I’ve dressed in anything nice or dark-colored, it’s like a homing beacon for the cats. Is that a black sweater? Why no, it’s now a white cat hair blend! I might as well throw on my cat necklace and keep a stash of kitty treats sticking out the top of my bag.
If you’ve been counting, this makes no less than 12 trips to the restroom. The guy must think have a bladder the size of a pea or that the shrimp scampi isn’t settling well.
What other key items do I need to add to my list?
*I like to contemplate what an Axe murderer might be like in the men’s fragrance sense of the word.