I’ve been called crazy more times in my life than I can remember. It’s almost a compliment to me at this point. I’d much rather someone think of me as a hilarious psycho who’s down for whatever than some boring ass white girl from suburbia who’s never had sex with a guy with a man bun just to see if it’d be different than sex with an actual man.
Fast forward to this past weekend where I’m out on date number two with a guy I’d met a few weeks ago. The date went well – I smiled a lot and laughed at stupid things. I even thanked the waitress when she refilled my water glass because I read somewhere that guys like girls who are appreciative and respectful. Nothing irregular.
Until yesterday. When I, way too caught up in my “my-life-is-a-romantic-comedy” fantasy to rationally process real life, agreed to go on a trip with this guy. On Thursday. For five days. TO EUROPE.
So here is the raging tsunami of thoughts going through my hollow skull right now:
1. How/where will I shit?
I know, girls don’t poop — yada yada yada. Save it for someone who actually thought that joke was funny when it first came out in 2007. The reason my shitting strategy is first on this list is because I don’t have one. Pooping for girls is like having an orgasm. The more you stress about it, the less likely it is to happen. The moment I convince myself he’s also thinking about how long this is taking is the moment I realize I’m shit out of luck… literally.
2. Do I have to sleep with him?
Let’s get a few things straight. First, we have not slept together yet. So much as I’d like to think it was my platinum vagine that compelled him to want to spend 120 hours with me straight, that’s just not the case. (I’m more of a strong white gold anyways, but he doesn’t have to know that yet.) Second, he paid for EVERYTHING. Granted, it was with airline miles and hotel points, but still. I feel a weird obligation to say thank you in a way that doesn’t include paying for all of our schnitzel and alcohol. Why can’t I just accept that maybe my company is thank you enough for him? Oh, that’s right, because he’s a guy. So it’s not.
3. If I do sleep with him, does this make me a prostitute? A sugar baby?
Seeing that he did pay for this trip, would “thanking” him if I feel comfortable make me the WASPiest hooker that ever lived? Also, since he is six years older than me, would exchanging sex for international travel make me the subject of the next Vanity Fair exposé on the immoral world of sugar babies?
4. Will I get murdered?
I’m not the easiest person to travel with. I chew disgusting amounts of gum at all hours of the day, I would rather eat my Think Thin bars than local delicacies, and I force the people I’m traveling with to arrive places HOURS in advance because of a traumatic incident I had running late for a train when I was four. How do I know that none of my psycho-ass idiosyncrasies will tip him over the edge? The last thing I need is to be remembered as the girl who started WWIII when DJT tweets “American Murder in Germany! Such a tragedy! Merkel conspiracy? Sad!”
*Writes on travel to-do list* “Tone down everything about self.”
Keep me in your prayers. .