Third dates: The one with the mutual acquaintance.

You might remember the first dates blog post back in May of this year. If I was technologically literate I’d be able to link to it here. But I’m not, so I won’t.


Lovely readers I hadn’t been dumped and a couple of weeks ago it was third date time. The second date was fairly uneventful so I’ll spare you the details. As it was, I hadn’t heard from him for a few weeks so I’d more or less written it off.


I got his letter (how cute, who writes letters these days?) stating the date and time. Also invited was a mutual acquaintance of ours. This means I don’t have to do all the talking or feel obligated to fill silences with my socially awkward chat.


I arrived slightly ahead of schedule, I’d gone smart casual again (big mistake, he was exceptionally well turned out and sporting a very shiny watch which I hadn’t noticed before). We had a slightly awkward greeting where I wasn’t sure if I should shake his hand or not. I did shake his hand and he laughed at me. Next time I might air kiss him, that’ll throw him right off.


We sat in exactly the same place as last time. He took off his watch and laid it face upwards on the table. A sly way of keeping time without looking directly at your wrist. Smooth.  He apologises for not seeing me in so long, he’s been out of the country. I think this guy is a player.


Where was our mutual acquaintance? It’s starting to get awkward and I don’t feel much like talking today. I need backup. My poker face lets me down, he says appear depressed. Bad. Move. It’s more like an accusation than a question and whilst answering without realising I manage to cross my arms and legs and fold myself as small as I can on to the corner of my chair. Maximum defensiveness has been deployed.


Our acquaintance arrives at this point looking slightly stressed, slightly sweaty and telling me that she tried to call me. She’ll be my wing woman, agree I’m absolutely not depressed and completely fine and that he is barking up the wrong tree. Won’t she? Instead she agrees with him. The words running through my mind should not be repeated (although after the arseholes blog I’m pretty sure we’re all comfortable with swearing).


Sod him, sod her and sod this situation. I can’t leave as I’m sure that will make me appear more guilty. Not content with making statements about my mental health, he comes up with some helpful tips so that I can be slightly more presentable for next time: regulate your sleep pattern, try and reduce your stress levels, tweak your medication. There’s only one option for me here: play the long game and prove them both wrong.


I’ve got 4 weeks to turn myself around and extract myself from the situation by inventing some sort of app so you can swipe right when you find a psychiatrist you really like.










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