When I contemplate whether or not to deal with the debacle that is the first date with a guy, I can't help but look to the internal blooper reel that contains the majority of my "first date" experience.

There was the first date with the guy that would end up being my first long-term relationship. It had a stellar beginning. We stopped at the gas station for gas (I was driving), and as I walked through the icy parking lot on that dark February night, I took a fall, Stooges style. Basically it was a feet-fly-out-from-underneath-me, soar-above-my-head-in-slow-motion, land-with-a-crack-on-my-tailbone-and-hit-my-head-on-the-concrete sort of fall. It was mortifying. Luckily, I was able to recover.

Then there was the movie-date with another winner named Bill. Bill picked me up and drove in his new Saturn (very stylin' at the time). I, nervous fidgeter that I was that night, began to fidget with the automatic seat-belt (the kind that automatically go across your chest when you close the door). Unbeknownst to me, I was fidgeting with the greasy crevice where the seatbelt moves back and forth. When we arrived at the movie theater, Bill gave me a funny look and told me that I had a little something on my face. Blushing, I tried to wipe away the offending substance when Bill suggested I might want to step in the ladies room. I scurried through the crowd to the restroom and will never forget the sight of my grease-smeared face. The more I washed and wiped the worse it became. After washing away the grease, all of my make-up, and a few layers of skin, I spent the remainder of the evening feeling (and smelling) like a mechanic.

And let's not forget the date with the man that I fondly remember as Dickhead Dominic who took me to an amusement park on a hot summer day. DD decided to chew some tobacco on the way home (this from the pre-med who was vehemently opposed to smoking). We were driving on the freeway trying to work through yet another awkward silence (I hate first dates) when DD said, "Roll down your window, lean your seat back, and close your eyes." Alarmed at his request, I demanded to know what on earth for. "Because I'm going to be a very bad man." DD informed me that he was going to throw the Wendy's cup full of saliva and discarded dip out of my window. Hell no was I going to let him throw that thing full of spit over me, and I, trying to fight my environmentalist repulsion to littering, volunteered to throw it out the window for him.

Bad move.

No sooner had I let go of the Biggie cup of dip then it seemed to explode like some sort of Tobacco-spit grenade. I was covered, and I mean COVERED, from arm to chest to head to face, with Tobacco spit and the nasty shit that he had under his lip. It was absolutely mortifying. I tried to ignore his giggles and my own embarrassment when we had to pull into a truck stop and I had to practically shower in a sink that probably hadn't been washed since the Reagan administration.

Major catastrophes aside, however, first dates are always frigging uncomfortable. (Let me just forget for a moment Pinhead Paul, who took me out to an amazing restaurant and then stopped at the neighborhood K-Mart to buy some rope. "Rope? What do you need Rope for?" I naively asked. "So we can tie each other up later," was his truthful reply. Uh...I don't think so.) There are the awkward silences, that moment when you part and you are not sure if you should kiss, hug, or just run for the hills. Usually I end up miss-kissing (those are the worst), blushing like a twelve-year old, running to my house, and then tripping up the steps on my way inside. The only difference is that I'm not 21 anymore. I don't really want to deal with all that shit. I'd quite honestly rather spend time with friends who don't make me feel like I'm at some sort of kinky job interview.

So when I look at the options for this evening. I have one of three choices.

A.) Go on another awkward first date. The sort I haven't been on for over four years. The sort where it takes me two hours to get myself ready, let alone straighten my house for the thirty seconds he might glimpse when he picks me up, or the car cleaning in case I have to drive. Where I feel like all of my clothes are awful and I go out and spend $200 I don't have on a new outfit. The kind where I get extremely nervous, drink too much to quell my anxiety, and end up doing something idiotic, like sticking my straw up my nose when I go for another drink of that margarita (been there, done that). The kind where the conversation lulls, where I inevitably say something asinine, where I realize that this dude and I have nothing in common and I just want to go home and drink a bottle of wine and watch DVDs with my beagles.

B.) Stay home and drink a bottle of wine and watch DVDs with my beagles.

C.) Go over to Jessica's yet again, watch grass grow, run out of things to talk about by 9pm, hit the hay by ten.

I'm really not too thrilled with the options. Guess I'll just wing it.