Your Emotional Journey Leading Up To A First Date


First dates, second dates, and third dates are three major anxiety triggers. Yes, with each progressive date, that anxiety dulls some–but it never really goes away until you’re well into a full-fledged relationship with someone. The amount of emotions a human experiences the day of a date is really quite extraordinary. It’s a miracle any of us make it to the actual event alive.

It’s like this:

You wake up calm and collected, ready for a new day–until you remember you’re going on a date tonight.

“Oh, my God,” you think. You lie there, suddenly halfway immobile. The anxiety washing over you is almost completely crippling, but somehow you manage to rise out of bed and start the day.

That’s when the group texting with your best friends starts.

You: “Y’all. What the hell am I gonna wear tonight?”
Neurotic friend: “OMG, totally forgot. What are you even gonna wear?”
Long-distance friend: “Send pictures of outfits. All the outfits ever.”

You shower, knowing you will shower again come nightfall, but there’s no such thing as being too clean on date day.

You make your daily thermos of coffee and laugh to yourself about how imperative today’s coffee poop will be to ensure maximum tummy flatness for tonight.

OMG–what if you don’t have a coffee poop today for some reason? No. No, you can’t trick yourself like that. You will poop.

Originally, your date asking you out for a weeknight was annoying–are you not important enough for a weekend outing? Now, you can’t imagine not having work serve as a distraction.

You fight the urge to pick your nose mid-traffic for fear your date is coincidentally sitting in the same traffic and can see you (date day paranoia–it’s a real thing).

All day at work, you try to focus, but you end up getting more bothered than usual when coworkers take you away from your involved gchats with friends. How dare they? Don’t they see that you’re dealing with much bigger things today?

You carve out a 10-minute chunk of time to mentally go through your closet’s contents and piece together an outfit.

You have nothing to wear.

“Do I have time to run to the mall during lunch and find a new, throwaway something from XXI?” You have to survive on double digits until next week and you vowed to not spend a dime, but this is clearly a DEFCON 5 event.

As you gather your things to frantically make your way to the mall, a last-minute meeting invite from Outlook pops up for 1 p.m. It’s 12:15 p.m. right now. You hate everyone and your system goes into involuntarily panic. Your group chat starts back up.

You: “Y’all. I have nothing to wear and no time to shop.”
Optimistic friend who looks good in everything: “You’re crazy! You have so many clothes. You can totally put something together.”
Neurotic friend who weighs less than you: “Ugh. I hear that. Wanna borrow something of mine?”
Long-distance friend: “I’d send you that one dress of mine you love if it could get there in time. :-/”

“Worthless. All of them,” you bitchily think. Hey, date preparation can bring out the worst in people.

It’s 3 p.m.

Then it’s 3:30 p.m.

Could time move any slower? You’ve spent most of the afternoon re-stalking his entire Instagram and Facebook, creating stories behind every female face that appears in his feed or on his wall. You know his life better than he does at this point. You really should be banned from social media.

Soon enough, it’s 5 p.m. and then you’re all like, “I’m not ready. Where did the time go? I’m completely mentally unprepared for this. I’m gonna cancel. I’m just gonna say I got held up at work and ask for a raincheck. But how can I say that without sounding sketchy?”

Then he texts you, as if he could sniff out your doubt from across town: “Pretty excited for tonight. What time works best for you?” All is right in the world.

Well, until you get home. Then the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan.

Second shower is now in progress. Something that normally takes you max five minutes now takes you 25. Why is this shower different from all other showers? Because you.



Armpits. Legs. Thighs. Butthole. Hoo-ha. Nipples. All of it. You don’t risk anything, running the razor over every inch of everything.

He’s absolutely not going to get even close to fingerbanging you tonight, but just knowing you’re prepared for anything empowers your inner sex kitten that much more.

You apply the exact same amount of makeup you do every single day, yet you take double the time to do so, therefore mind-fucking yourself into believing it’s a more important and well thought out makeup job.

It isn’t. But you look good. Better than usual, even though your makeup routine is literally the exact same.

You go through at least three outfits and seriously consider calling off the date completely. “What’s the fucking point? It’ll probably suck, anyway. It’s not gonna lead anywhere. This is a waste of my time and another disappointment waiting to happen.” You’re in total meltdown mode. In the darkest of meltdown modes, tears have been known to happen.

But the best friend group text saves the day.

You: “I can’t do this. I feel so disgusting. I have no clothes. I can’t go. I’m not going. I’m gonna text him.”
Optimistic friend: “WHAT? You looked gorgeous in every one of the 19 selfies you sent us! You’re going. Do I need to come over there and smack you?”
Neurotic friend: “If you’re not in a good place, don’t go. You won’t enjoy yourself.”
Long-distance friend: “Quit being a dumbass. Pour yourself a drink and wear the first outfit.”

Wine is chugged. Emotions are calmed. You end up in the first outfit with a different outlook and surge of confidence. After all, your nipples and vaj are prepared for anything and no one.

You’re ready and you purposely sit as far away from any mirror in your home because you swear to God, if you fuck with your hair one more time…

Gum packed. Lipstick packed. Pepcid AC packed in case your early onset, old people indigestion decides to kick in post-meal. An extra spritz of perfume sprayed somewhere random like your stomach because you can.

He texts, “Almost there! I’ll come up to your door.”

It’s time.

Date night 2014, y’all.

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Emma G

Emma is a female with a vagina and, subsequently, often writes things other vaginas (and sometimes weiners) find super relatable. She is a 20something who loves eating, buying clothes she doesn't need, and wearing lipstick. You can find 4+ years of her rantings on her blog:

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