Is a first date ever really about the date, or is it about how easily we can leave if things go south?
I've been thinking about this because I've noticed something about myself. I don't like to do coffee dates, and when I do a drinks date I tend to regret that they are meeting a person on a mild buzz and not the actual me.
Coffee dates feel like job interviews to me, just with better lighting. You sit across from a stranger, both clutching a flat white like a stress ball, while one of you asks, "So what do you do?" and the other pretends that's an interesting question. By the time the cups are empty, you've learnt everything about his career and nothing about whether you'd like to kiss him. It's normally somewhere between Morning and Midday, so it's too early to invite them back to yours, but lunch with a stranger also feels mildly incorrect.
Drinks are worse, for different reasons. A drinks date has intentions. It wears a nicer shirt. It knows where the evening could go and isn't subtle about it, but two glasses of anything and I'm in love with whatever's sitting across from me. Him, the waiter, a really nice sticker I found in the bathroom.
I used to tell that as a joke. Lately, I've noticed it's a confession. Don't get me wrong, I don't avoid drinks dates. I just avoid suggesting them because I don't trust myself not to fall too fast.
Which is why I often go for the loophole.
Ice cream.
An ice cream date has everything a first date needs and nothing it doesn't. It's sweet without being romantic. It's casual without being lazy. Nobody has to have an opinion about natural wine.
But the real appeal, is that it melts.
A coffee can be nursed for an hour. A cocktail turns into three. Ice cream has a time limit built in. If it's going badly, you're out in fifteen minutes. If it's going well, you walk, and walking is where the real conversations happen anyway. Either way, nobody's trapped. Least of all me.
I have to say, not all ice cream is the same, so I've been following a bit of a system.
The Audition
Sometimes, if I want to be dazzled, it's Anita: loud music, long queue, expensive taste. Reserved for the hot one. Thrilling for an evening, exhausting as a lifestyle. You leave on a sugar high with no memory of what you talked about, mostly because you couldn't hear each other.
Freo is the one who seemed basic when we were talking on hinge, but slowly revealed to me that he had depth.
If I am feeling a bit novel, it's at Smize, Tyra Banks's ice cream shop. A first date is basically a photo shoot. You're trying to look relaxed, interested and effortlessly attractive while being quietly assessed. So I take him somewhere supervised by the woman who taught a generation to smile with their eyes. If he gets the reference, I'm halfway in love and we have something to talk about. If he doesn't, he was never going Daniel's Next Top Model
Just as a note, the irony isn't lost on me. I often think that on a good date I don't want to feel like I'm auditioning for the role of Someone's Boyfriend. Here I feel like I'm running the auditions myself. Maybe that's the point, there's always power in being the person to hold the clipboard.
The Upgrade
If I really like him, he gets promoted. Most men never know they've been upgraded. I prefer it that way. If he doesn't know there's a second level, he can't know I've been running auditions, and this is the call back.
Cow and the Moon is the pilgrimage to Enmore, for the man with a quiet résumé that turns out to be extraordinary.
And then there's Mapo. Seasonal, organic, quietly perfect. Mapo is the one you marry. He remembers your birthday and never makes you feel small. I know exactly how I'd take someone there. I'm still waiting to find out who.
The Consolation Prize
And if he's basic, I'll take him somewhere more generic. Somewhere I can have a think as to whether I'm actually into him.
Yo-Chi, is perfect because Frozen yoghurt is what you have when you want dessert without committing to dessert. He leaves with a cup of something pleasant, a mountain of cookie dough. If it goes well, we can go for a little walk, and if I'm not liking the energy we don't have to pretend we will see each other again.
Gelato Messina is for the guy everyone's dated: once the most exciting man in the city, now coasting on his reputation, yet somehow you keep going back for the specials.
Gelatissimo is the man you meet at the airport. Convenient, perfectly fine, forgotten by the time you've finished.
There are also some spots that have sadly left my roster, which leads us to The Graveyard
Yogurberry: we had some good times in the high school, but I've moved on to better things.
And Cold Rock is the man I could never afford. God, I'd love to take a date to Cold Rock. Thankfully the one near me closed, because the toppings alone would have bankrupted me.
And when I look at the whole thing laid out, it isn't really a ranking of ice cream shops. It's a ranking of how much of myself I'm willing to risk.
The Audition keeps me in control. The Consolation Prize keeps me safe, and the only tier where I'd actually be vulnerable, the one I've put on a pedestal, is the one I rarely get to use.
Maybe that's the trouble with building a date that melts. It guarantees you'll never get stuck. It also guarantees nothing lasts longer than a scoop. So, are my first dates ever really about the date, or about how easily we can leave?
For me, lately, it's been about the leaving. I've designed my whole love life around the exit and then wondered why everyone keeps taking it.
But maybe one day I'll walk into a first date without checking where the door is. I'll order something a little bigger than I planned, take a little longer than fifteen minutes and let it get messy.
I'm told that's what happens when you stop worrying about it melting.