My Fear Lady
It’s very disconcerting waiting for a date and not knowing what direction they’re going to come from. You’re standing at the predetermined meeting place; a landmark, venue, or—God forbid—an intersection, just floating in space and completely vulnerable like a scuba diver in shark-infested waters. That's why I try to anchor myself to a building, so at least I'm not surprised from behind. With my back to a wall, I'm surveying the land, scanning the street from left to right, watching for a cab to pull up, a streetcar to make a stop, or eyeing the free agents darting across the street on foot who are much harder to track. I have to consider all the options because what I need is lead time—a couple seconds when I know he's approaching, but he doesn't know. That way I can change my body language to say what I want it to say: this is who I am when no one is watching. Except this is actually who I am when I know someone is watching.
This is when decisions have to be made. Do I want to seem confident, humble, quirky? Whatever route I take has to be natural (which it isn't). Sometimes I like to root through my bag. Oo, what is she looking for? I'm intrigued. Nothing, I'm not looking for anything. Once you get here I'll just pull out whatever my hand lands on (which is hopefully a lip balm and not a battered tampon or crumb-covered piece of gum that's been sitting at the bottom for months). It shows I am determined in my search and proves I have strong intentions. Plus it gives my hands and mind something to do. Preoccupation is the best mask for being uncomfortable. It eliminates the chance for someone to clue into what you don't know or are worried about. A personal favourite is when my mask loop gets tangled on my earring. There's a few more seconds where I don't have to be figuring out what my thoughts are supposed to be. I have a task! But I can't rely on being struck by this naturally occurring phenomenon, so I've started creating a list that I can draw upon at any given moment. When I cycle through them, it's less obvious that they are pre-planned. I.e: re-tying my shoes, re-wrapping my scarf, wiping my glasses, taking my gloves off, then realizing I'm actually still cold, and putting them back on again. As you may have noticed, it is much easier to do these things in the winter when I'm a Christmas tree decorated in scapegoats. Maybe I'll avoid first dates in the warm weather. Dedicate that time to friends and family. Hobbies? I'll try to fill up my plate by then.
If I'm strapped for ideas, a simple tactic is putting my hands in my pockets. Eyes are the gateway to the soul? No, hands are the gateway to the soul, in that they will totally give away how weird you're being. They're supposed to hang limply by your sides, invisible. Instead, they petrify like close-fingered Barbie mitts, except I don't have her perky boobs or organ-less waist to distract from them. The Pocket Method™ disguises this. I don't want to go so far to say it is a magical transformation, but I've tested it when I'm standing alone without the privilege of something to hold. Hands in pockets? Just a gal. Nothing to see here. Hands out of pockets? Moron. Keep watching because it will only get worse.
The last resort—which is often the first resort because I am weak—is going on my phone. With phones at our disposal, we never have to sit with discomfort. Ever. Let's envision it: You're in public, standing idly, looking straight ahead—picture a sheep in the middle of a field, staring at you while you drive by on the highway. You know the sheep has literally nothing else to do, so you feel bad for it. Wow it would suck to be that dumb sheep. I am doing things and going places. I am better than that sheep. But then you feel bad for yourself and think, Why can't I just sit still like this sheep? We're both living things. Do I think I'm better than this sheep because I'm driving to a cottage right now? When I get to the cottage, I'm going to just stand in nature—that's exactly what this fucking sheep is doing. Damn, this sheep has it figured out.
Phones play tricks on our minds even when we're not using them. I resist the urge to pull it out, but then I judge myself for not using what's there. When I have five minutes to spare, why wouldn't I read an article? I'm wasting a learning opportunity. Why wouldn't I play a game? I work hard and deserve a break. Why wouldn't I check the weather in Los Angeles? I don't live there, but I think we've established that I'm trying to escape my reality. Not using my phone doesn't even feel like an option anymore, until I have the chilling reminder that I had a life before them and used to... I honestly can't remember what I used to do. Count sheep? These animals are trying to tell us something. Anyway, the problem doesn't stop at deciding to use my phone. What do I want him to think I'm doing on my phone? This is a first impression. Do I want to be mindlessly scrolling like a vapid drone? Or do I want to be responding to a message—this shows I have friends and a job—not that I really have either at the moment. That's irrelevant though, I just have to be typing. He won't see it. That's actually what I'm doing right now, writing this.
Oh shit, I see him, but now I have to pretend I didn’t see him. Otherwise I have to watch him walk across the intersection and that's so many seconds of body awareness. It feels like I'm in the middle of a choreographed dance that I've suddenly forgotten the moves to. Look down. No don't look down, look up. Not up, but straight. Breathe. A normal amount! Ok, bag. Now. Do the bag. What's that, is that a penny or a nickel? Why does it matter, you're not going to just pull out a coin. Should I say hi first or wait for him to say it? Read the room. Wait, what's his name again? What's my name again?! BAAAHH! BAAAAAHHHH!