On to today’s post.
Here’s a shocking revelation: I, in my impressionable, hopeful, naïve, and foolish (but super fun!) youth, have made quite a few mistakes when it comes to members of the opposite sex. Telling too much about myself, not telling enough. Not appreciating what I’ve had, putting all my marbles into one basket. You name it, I’ve done it. But there is one mistake I’ve made
Except, I’ve been on maybe 5 dates. Ever.
Revised for my life, the rule I break more often than I should reads more like this: Don’t let anyone see you naked unless you’re going steady.
Seems simple enough right?
With the level of intimacy that really goes along with seeing someone in their birthday suit, you’d think
Which is fine. I don’t see nothin’ wrong with a little bump and grind.
Unless there are feelings involved. Whether those feelings are budding or long-standing, when someone’s heart is in play a one-nighter pales in comparison to a night finally spent with someone you really care about, and who really cares about you. And unfortunately, one-nighters tend to serve as big, insurmountable roadblocks to anything that resembles a substantial relationship. Yes, there are exceptions. But, no, Virginia, there is no such thing as f-ing your way to love.
To put it bluntly.
I’ll usually be the first one to share naughty details of my conquests with girlfriends, but I’ll also be the first one to know exactly what went wrong when a friendship or courtship on track to be something more is derailed by a vodka infused night of mischief. Now, my regret is usually never based on an, “Eek, I shouldn’t have done that,” moment. At least not for the usual reasons. I truly believe that women have as much of a right to express their sexuality as men without judgment. My backsteps are almost always due to the social anxiety and awkwardness that come after the fact – where neither party can really assess the ramifications of their actions. When things are kept simple and everybody keeps their clothes on, lags in calls or texts or Facebook messages or smoke signals are pretty benign signals of busy schedules or genuine lack of interest. And who can argue with that? Things progress as they should, and people end up together or they don’t. But when the getting-to-know-you phase is replaced by the getting-to-know-what-you-look-like-naked phase, all of a sudden there are about 9 trillion reasons that can be assigned to a change in pace when things go not so well. Did we move too fast? Does he think I’m a slut? Do I even like him? Was it awkward because we didn’t know each other well enough or because we had no chemistry? All questions that wouldn’t need to be asked or wouldn’t need to be answered and wouldn’t drive me NUTS if I (we, people in general…) had slowed down and reverted to a 1950s way of doing things.
I’m not saying that I think I need to be engaged to go to first base, but I’m thinking that I’ve been in a few relationships that would have been better served if I had been a little less college and a little more Ellen Fein. There are a few experiences that, while great, I wish had happened after a night of being romanced and wooed off my feet instead of knocked on my ass by 3 too many cocktails. At the time, did I think it would matter if I hit a triple before I had gone through a proper warm-up? Hells no, that’s why they call it getting lucky. But, did a bunch of things hurt later on that probably wouldn’t have if I had taken my time?
Youbetchya.
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