Steph Not Stephanie

Dating is a difficult concept, I know. There are no hard and fast rules telling us what to do, and what works for one person might send the next running for the hills. Everyone has an opinion (much like assholes, ba dum tsh) about how to properly go about things, and thanks to online dating it’s pretty much the Wild West without spurs out there (please god, let it be without spurs).

With that being said, I am going to call bullshit on our generation’s seeming reluctance to even admit that we are, in fact, dating. The Comedian (try not to picture this guy) and I went out for drinks the first time we met, and I believe he asked if I ‘fancied a meet up.’ A cute, casual invite. Drinks were had, the cheque was split, and we hastily hugged goodbye due to Toronto and its blizzard tendencies. He texted shortly thereafter to say we should ‘hang out again this week.’ Hmmm. Not to be an asshole, but I’m going to be an asshole. We aren’t hanging out. We aren’t chilling. We aren’t friends (or 13-year-old girls), so if we get together again, it’s a fucking date.

We ended up going to a movie, which somehow felt even more like a non-date. Much like the previous time, we went dutch. Now before everyone loses their goddamned minds on me, I am all for the splitting of the cheques, I just think there are more date-like ways to go about it. If I go to the movies with a friend, I’m all, ‘Ticket for one, gimme all the snacks please, here’s some money.’ But in a dating scenario, there’s something a bit more — romantic? In-this-together? I don’t fucking know, but it’s better — about one person grabbing the tickets while the other gets buckets of sugar and salt and bubbles. He clearly thought it was at least date-adjacent because he went in for the goodnight kiss, which ended with me publicly exclaiming, ‘Oh no! You don’t want to do that, I’m sick!’ while turning my head so he ended up with a mouthful of ear. This was not news to him as I had to cancel earlier in the week and gave him fair warning that I was still sick, and drank Cold 911 tea instead of a bucket of pop like a normal moviegoer. Don’t go in for the kiss when I’m sick. I am struggling to breathe on my own. I do not want to suffocate because my nose is stuffed up and you’re blocking my only other option with your mouth.

Awkward kiss rejection notwithstanding, he has asked to hang out again, and I am seriously puzzled by this hesitation to call a date a date. I’m going out with a married couple next week and even that is being called an actual date. Oh yeah, for those not in the know, sometimes there are ladies. I’m about a two on the infamous Kinsey Scale (heteroflexible seems to be the most accurate descriptor for me).

In the same week, Sam came up to the city for date number two, and it had a definite date vibe. We went to dinner, skated at city hall, and ended with some quality cuddle and Netflix time. He paid for dinner, I got us dessert at the greatest Loblaws in the history of the planet, and I had also pre-bought wine (that went unopened because of the aforementioned sickness; nothing says sexy like guzzling herbal tea and smelling like Vicks). It probably all evened out (minus his long-ass drive from not Toronto, but what can I say, I’m a charmer), but it just felt more like a date — whatever that’s supposed to feel like. I don’t know if either of us used the actual word, but it sure as shit wasn’t called hanging out. I’m heading home for my cute-as-fuck niece’s first birthday this weekend, and he and I have plans for date number three while I’m there. Maybe a proper date is the incentive I need to finally start collecting air miles. Fucking Chatham.