My best friend squees when I tell her that I went on a date last night. I think because the idea of ‘dating’ now seems so obsolete . . . everyone I know is either married, or in committed relationships, and those that aren’t? Well, the rest of us meet up for impromtu drinks, or coffee, and meet people through giant friends of friends group outings. There is no one-on-one dates that happen anymore. Not the dinner and a movie kind of dates anyway.

Which is why I was surprised to find myself on date. Date Number Two, which is novel, considering the first date was what felt like years ago (August counts as years ago, I think). Even more surprising, is that it was meant to be just drinks, but turned into one of those impromptu drinks, and dinner, and then out to a halloween party kind of date.

He’s surprisingly sweet, and we talk and laugh and have a lovely night. He accompanies me to a Halloween party where I know next to no one, dresses up on short notice for me, and admires my dress (I went as a bridesmaid/hooker (the last one’s an injoke) Surprisingly, I found a bride at the party so that worked. An Irish bride (who told me that when I move to the UK, I should find a nice Scottish boy).

Generally made me feel attractive and lovely. I was impressed at how he didn’t check out the other girls (when I could see), he held my hand was generally attentive. He got my drinks, and whispered sweet nothings into my ear and was a perfect gentleman.

It was novel, this dating thing. I enjoyed it, for all that it was, and what it was was all it could be. There won’t be any more dates with this boy (it’s a logistical improbability. Hemisphere’s away and all that), and that’s fine. I think I’m okay with this traditional, lovely dating gig. Dinner, and gentlemanly politeness and wooing.

I wonder what dating in the UK will be like . . . I hope its similar. Who doesn’t like being treated like a princess?

It was awkward watching them figure out what they had. It was still new, I think. They weren’t quite ready to share it openly, but with the looks and the touching and the reactions it was there for the world to read.

I wanted to say don’t hurt him, don’t play with him. He’s a good guy, an amazing guy. Someone who I have alot of time for. But he’s only here for a few more months, and no one likes the person who meddles, no matter how platonic the intention. So I held my tongue. But oh, goodness. He wasn’t especially sure. This boy who is usually so in control of himself, super confident, happy go lucky had turned into a sad little puppy because he wasn’t sure what the deal was. They hadn’t worked out the details, and that made him miserable. The boy who so easily gave a grin was sad. I wanted to put plasters over where his heart is, and hope that sadness had such an easy fix. It worked one time. I didn’t think it’d work as easy this time.

What was worse having to watch it evolve, recognising the awkwardness. The newness. I remember being there, I remember fumbling about, making alot of grandoise statements, trying to make sense of what I felt, what I thought I should feel. Playing hard to get, being a little stand offish, realising that the more I stepped back, the more he stepped forward. I recognised wanting the affection, but not wanting it on display. I remember loving the attention, but at the same time the balance of what was okay attention and what was not okay was off and I resented it. I’d never in a million years be able to say where the line is, but there you have it. It was there, and I had to watch my friend get kicked down a notch.

Open adoration apparently isn’t what girls want anymore. I read a blog post a while ago. The writer was in an open air club somewhere interesting (Greece, maybe? Cyprus?) and had watched this girl be approached by this boy. She toyed with him. She was standoffish, and after a moment or two, she said something cutting. Something heartbreaking. The boys face dropped, and she, rather triumphantly and with a swagger walked away into the bathroom. The boy was broken. After a few minutes, he miserably pulled himself together, and moved on. Walked away. The girl, after a few more moments, poked her head out of the bathroom. And when she realised that the boy was gone? Her face *dropped*. Jaw to the ground miserable. She was devastated that he hadn’t waited for her.

Now, the blogger I think used it in conjunction with a metaphor, something about hopscotch. Taking the time to look back and see what matters. If he’d stayed, he would have seen that he mattered to her. In saying that, I personally think that she shouldn’t play such silly games, and should just have said he mattered to begin with instead of biting of her nose to spite her face.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I recognise this kind of behaviour. These kind of games is something I used to do (and probably still do occasionally when my emotions get the better of me) and I don’t especially like it. Why do we do it? Why do girls play such games?

It was novel to have this situation appear in such a way that I wasn’t involved. I could walk away, and I did. It wasn’t my place to get involved – those two will figure it out for themselves I think. I hope so, anyway.

It’s been a long, long time since I was taken on a date, a proper date. The kind where it’s not through friends of friends, so there’s no group outings to break the ice. The kind where he calls instead of txts, to ask if I’d like to go on a movie-dinner date. I like that he actually called it a date, no implied meanings, no wriggle room for assumptions, are we/aren’t we wonderings. A date he said.

The kind of date where he picks me up, from my house, and knocks on the front door. Where he wears a shirt, with a collar. Where he drives us, in his big, lumbering ute to the restaurant, where he’s already made 7pm reservations. Where he pays for the (ridiculously expensive) dinner, without a thought. Where we hold hands while we walk to the movie theatre, and where he doesn’t let go all the way through the movie. And when he drops me off, a single, sweet kiss is all he requests before he’s on his way again.

It’s the kind of date where feel like I’m being wooed. There are no dirty, suggestive one liners. It’s all above the board, clean and kind of sweet like. Gentlemanly. Mostly, anyway.

Perhaps its just me, but I feel out of my depth here. I’ve never been wooed like this. I’ve never been carefully courted, and I feel like I’m on unstable ground, unsure of what I’m meant to do, or react. I’m a straight up kind of girl, and usually lay out what it is I want, we play by my rules and within these lines. But this? This is on a completely different level to my lines, and rules. Its different, and outside of my experience. I’m unsure of myself.

It’s a very odd place to be in, and is both novel and unsettling. I’m not sure I want it, but for now, I think I’m going to go with it, I think. Be brave. It might turn into something wonderful, or it might turn out to be nothing at all.

It was dark, and wet and miserable, which suited me perfectly. I drove with a friend through the familiar streets, and I tried for light hearted gossip even though we both knew that I was angsting. We peered at letterboxes, trying to figure out how close we were.

Three . . . Five . . Nine? Did we miss it? I pull over, and get out.

I walk down to Seven, and stand in the driveway.

It looks like a nice enough place, an ugly villa in semi-good nick, and there are lights on. His cars not there, though. It’s Wednesday, so he’s probably at netball. I frown a little (it still irks that he’s still playing netball with MY team. I insisted, at the time, that I leave instead of he, and now it just seems silly that I did). Still, it’s good that he’s not here, I didn’t want to run into him anyway.

I hold the mail that’s not mine and eye the letter box, and I’m torn. If I leave these here, then please please please let this be the end of this, please stop bothering me with details he should have already taken care of, please get out of my life. And then the other side, if I leave the letters here, there will be no more reasons to send an email, to talk, if just about nothing, no reasons to connect . . . and I miss him.

I stop myself before I can get further with that thought. I don’t need the past.

That particular past is a bit like a cigarette. It’s bad for you, and it makes your breath and hair and clothes smell, and you get that horrible smokers cough. And everyone gets down on you for smoking, they do, because its disgusting and bad for you, and you know it, and they know it. But you crave the nicotine, so you smoke the cigarettes anyway. You feel relief, but its dirty, and tastes bad.

He was like that. Encourgaging horrible behaviour and disparaging remarks and a miserable, lonely existence.

I don’t need that past. I don’t want that past.

I drop the letters in the box, and walk away, quickly, back to the car out of the rain.

We drive on, and I spent the rest of the night in good company, with friends who are brilliant and make me laugh. With boys who like me, and tell me so. With people who bring out the best in me, not the worst. With people who would rather hold me up, than let me fall. With people who care about me. People who actually care.

I’m learning to let go, slowly. And its hard. But I wish I didn’t have to learn. I wish I already had.