So last weekend I went on a date. A proper American style date, which for me is an extremely, extremely rare event. Funnily enough I tend to date more in Sri Lanka than anywhere else, though dating there is a totally different ball game. Over here you date a girl to get to know her, generally from the very beginning. In Lanka however you tend to meet a girl with a group of friends, get to know her a bit while in a group and then ‘thin’ her from the herd for various nefarious activities. Personally I prefer the latter experience because if a girl is annoying for one thing you have other girls you can hit on without serious damage (well most of the time) and you also have your chums you can go get drunk with to forget the craziness that is womankind.

Anyways I went on this date, the hook up which was generally thanks to the obsession with photography and the wonder that is facebook. And it was…pleasant…it wasn’t super but it wasn’t bad either. But it was an odd experience. For one thing somehow both of us talked most of the time, didn’t listen to the band but just chatted. Unfortunately it was during the conversation and dinner later on that I had a dawning of an epiphany. That I actually do know what I want in a girl, and this girl though very nice, and I mean very nice, just didn’t fit the bill. 

I like independence, attitude and a hint of naughty. Nice girls turn me off, sheltered girls turn me off and someone who doesn’t push my buttons, well isn’t as much fun. In fact what was eerie was that as the date progressed I came to realize more and more that this girl was almost a carbon copy of the ex, right down to the school. For some reason I kept hearing a voice in my head going ‘danger! Will Robinson, danger!’ and it got louder and louder as time progresses. I sincerely hope that it did not pop out of my mouth inadvertently as things have been doing recently, especially since I tend not to realize when something that was supposed to be in my head comes out of my mouth unless I cotton onto the shocked looks of the participants in the conversation.

At the end of the day the experience wasn’t a chore. Would I repeat it? I honestly don’t know. It’s hard to judge someone from those first sweaty palmed interactions and to be fair I think I may have come across as a somewhat alcoholic, nicotine addicted workaholic and I’m definitely not a workaholic. So there’s no guarantee that she would even want a second round, besides geography has raised its head again so that may indeed be a moot point. Ambiguity still reigns as choice is somewhat limited out here and the formula of intelligence, independence, brown eyes and stark raving nutter are difficult to come by these days. So much for curing the one-itis.