Featured Author: Rachel Hauck
Nerves, nerves, nerves. Of course! This is a first date. With a really handsome guy. Who smells good. Is that why I’d said yes? His cologne? What if he’s an ax murderer?
“I lured her in with my scent.” Like an animal in the wild.
Stop! I know this guy, where he works, who he hangs with on Friday nights. I even know his favorite football team. Ohio State. I grew up loving Ohio State. Grandpa bled scarlet and grey.
Why am I so nervous?
What will we talk about? Football? What if he doesn’t like football? What if we have nothing in common at all?
Note: Check Uber app for a valid credit card.
Should I wait for him to open doors or just be all I-am-woman and open my own doors?
What should I wear? I have nothing, literally nothing. Well, not literally. My closet is stuffed with clothes. But still, I have nothing to wear!
Time, watch the time. Six o’clock? He’ll be here in an hour. Is he an “arrive early” or “fashionably late” kind of guy?
Late, please be late.
Going through my closet, one hanger at a time. I have nothing to wear.
“Wear your new pleated trousers with a print top and strappy heels,” my sister said. “He’s not short, is he? No? Good.”
Heels, heels, where are the strappy heels? Found them! And they don’t go with the slacks at all, which by the way, make my hips look like the Rocky Mountain Range.
Go with jeans. Skinny jeans. Perfect first date attire. Paired with a red top. Shoes? Doc Martin’s? Yes, Doc Martin’s.
I’m dressed . . . and . . . I didn’t shower. Good grief. At least the jeans held up to their name: skinny.
The warm water relaxes me enough to practice first date conversation. Let’s see, oh, how about, “How’d you get into fitness?” Wait, is he? “Do you pump iron?”
Do people still say, “Pump iron?” I blame my dad. The man is quintessential ‘70s.
What about old cars? MOPAR? I’m a walking encyclopedia. Ask me anything. Go ahead. ’71 Cuda? ’64 Thunderbird? I’m your girl. Am I rambling?
Ringing . . . Is the phone ringing? Hold on, hold on. Towel, where’s my towel?
“Hello?” Don’t be him. Don’t be him.
“Hey, some of us are going to dinner on the beach. Heading there now.” Not him. Just my roommate and best friend.
“I have a date.”
“Date? Since when?”
She never listens. Ever.
Back in the shower, I rinse, towel off for real this time, and check my complexion in the mirror. You know, on second thought, dinner with friends sounds good. Relaxing. Devoid of a knotted middle. I can wear shorts and wrap my hair in a sloppy topknot.
Cancel. Why not? First date? Who loves them? No one.
“So sorry. Something came up.”
He’ll be relieved. He really meant to ask my roommate. She’s the pretty one. Still, the girl in the mirror puts off a nice vibe.
Back to the closet. The one devoid of anything decent to wear. I nix the slacks. Jeans? No, too hot if we dine alfresco. Summer dress? With pockets. Simple and breezy. And white sneakers. Or flip-flops?
Where are we going again? Right, dinner and a movie. So . . . it’s back to jeans. And a parka. Florida in August with the arctic A/C is our winter.
I’m obsessing. Can’t breathe. Slow down. Inhale. Exhale. I decide on the dress and sneakers. Final answer.
After all, this is just a first date. No biggy. Done it a thousand times. No, I’ve never done anything a thousand times. I’d never do a thousand first dates. How crazy! More like a hundred times. No, more like a dozen. And a half.
Why does this guy want to go out with me? I’m a mess of average beauty. At best.
My phone alarm buzzes. Six-thirty. Is that a knock on the door? Is he here? No, not this early!
First dates. Aren’t they the worst? Never going on a first date again.
I slip on the dress with pockets and tie on my sneakers. Back to the bathroom mirror, I braid my hair. Casual but cute. Add mascara, blush, lipstick and decide I pass for cute. It’s good to be confident on a first date, no?
Five minutes ‘til seven. Friends is on the TV. The one where Ross wears leather pants. On a first date! Oh Ross, I’m not that bad. Am I?
Seven o’clock. Then seven-o-five. He’s not coming. Stood up. Don’t tear up. Not worth it. We talked for two hours at a party. Sent a couple of texts. Barely knew the guy.
Is that the doorbell? It’s him. Open the door!
He smiles and I remember why I said yes. “Sorry I’m late. There was a turtle in the road. I stopped to rescue it.”
“Lucky turtle.” I grab my handbag.
“You look gorgeous,” he says as he opens my car door. “I think I’m the lucky one.”
First dates. First dates! Aren’t they the best? Simply the best.
A graduate of Ohio State University, she’s a passionate Buckeye football fan. She lives in central Florida with her husband and writes stories for you from her ivory tower.
Connect with Rachel on Facebook, Instagram, BookBub, or her website.
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