On our first date, we went to a restaurant a block away from his apartment. He wanted to show it to me, so we walked to the corner across the street from his building and I tilted my head up, counting the windows up from the bottom, which was easy because he only lives on the second floor. I nodded, Yes, I see which one is yours, head tilted back, looking up.
“Do you want to come up and see it?” he asked, innocently, non-threateningly. And he lives in a green apartment in a green building, he even (often) uses the word “sustainable” in everyday casual conversation—don’t ask me how he fits it in, and so much, he just does, really seamlessly, it is one of the things I love about him—so that whole environmentally responsible angle contributed to making his offer more interesting than most, but still, I wasn’t tempted to break my First Date Rules, so I shook my head No, and Not tonight.
On our second date we went out to dinner in my neighborhood, so I purposely did not clean my apartment so I wouldn’t be tempted to invite him up, because I did (really) like kissing him, but I have Second Date Rules, too. And not only did I not clean it, but I don’t clean my apartment in the way that one doesn’t clean one’s apartment when one is not seriously dating anyone and hasn’t for a long time, and one does not expect to have guests. Ever. Which may seem sort of gross and why don’t I want a clean place for myself to live in? But honestly, it doesn’t bother me, I don’t even notice it anymore, and I am not the kind of person who finds afternoons frolicking with a spray bottle of Tilex the least bit fulfilling.
To further illustrate this point, I digress in order to present a random sampling of “not clean” things in my apartment:
- Sheets that haven’t been washed since right before the last time I had sex with my ex, so there is probably still ex-sex in them. And I haven’t not washed them in some weird deliberate stalkery way, like I want to get naked and roll around in dirty ex-sexed-up sheets or anything. Honestly, washing sheets, blankets, pillowcases, and that under-thing, mattress pad or whatever, and then putting them back on the bed by yourself, especially the part where you finally firmly secure the upper right corner and then the lower left corner breaks free, takes a lot of effort in a particular area that I happen to be lazy in.
- There are enormous dust bunnies everywhere, and highly concentrated under my kitchen table, dresser, bed, bookcase, and in the corners, making meaningless small talk with the hairballs.
- In general, dust seems to be a major problem overall, especially in places that have surfaces. Perhaps this high dust concentration is a result of living in an urban area, but I can’t say for sure as I have never done any definitive research on this matter. I am open to all your opinions re: dust.
- There is caked on—there is no other way to describe this and I know it is not a very technical or precise word but—“shit” all over my stove, which is strange because I rarely cook anything that requires more than boiling water so where did all the shit come from? I mean, it definitely looks like burnt food debris in shape and texture. Who knew spilled water could become such a problem?
- My bathroom is like a whole separate issue. The bathtub has a general and persistent mold problem that I have generally and persistently become blind and immune to. There is a ring-would-be-an-understatement around my toilet bowl (a more accurate way to describe this might be necklace, the thick, choker-y kind. For a giant.), a circle of mold that has texture and some height to it around my sink drain, and the floor is perpetually dirty, no matter how much I sweep and/or scrub, which, as I’ve hinted at, I don’t do that often. Because what’s the point since it really doesn’t make a noticeable difference? It would just be like, inefficient.
- This is a one-time-only event and not an ongoing, chronic problem, but I was in the middle of the two-day process of defrosting my fridge and the fluorescent illumination of the open door (I tried, unsuccessfully, to tape down the light button with super-strong, but apparently flawed, packing tape) did not strike me as mood lighting, particularly, nor did the pungent puddle of defrosted ice strike me as mood aroma, particularly.
So no, at the end of our second date, when he said quietly and non-threateningly, yet slightly less innocently as we were making out in the entryway of my building at the time, that he would love to come upstairs, because of the way I had brilliantly set it up, I did not feel the least bit conflicted when I shook my head No, and said, Not tonight.
On our third date he cooked me dinner at his green apartment, which turned out to be crab and ricotta ravioli from scratch, even the pasta, which he made from scratch in his pasta maker (what?), with a homemade cream sauce, out of the William Sonoma Pasta Cookbook, a salad that included spinach as the prominent green, and olive oil not butter to go with the hearty grain bread, and even, a plate of olives on the side. There would possibly be candlelight involved, and maybe even wine. But I had decided that I didn’t want to take my clothes off at all until after the one-month mark, and instead intended to spend our first 31 days together getting to know each other on purely mental, emotional, and spiritual planes, you know, building what I like to call a rock-solid foundation.
I called my friend and told her about my upcoming dinner date, and that I hadn’t gotten a bikini wax in over six months and furthermore, I wasn’t going to, as insurance that I would keep my clothes on yet again. Honestly, it was pretty much a total mess down there. It is (was) the kind of high-maintenance wax that needs constant, vigilant attention and frequent touch-ups say, every two weeks or so in an absolutely perfect world, as opposed to blatant disregard and months (two full seasons and then some) of neglect. After elaborating, in detail, on the status of my neglected wax for about five minutes, my friend finally managed to interrupt me, feeling somewhat violated I think by this forced and very much against her will intimate knowledge of my pubic region.
“Get the wax,” she said firmly, definitively, “Cause in the moment, you won’t care what it looks like and then you’ll regret it and it’ll be too late, cause he’ll have seen it and now he’s terrified. Like, forever.”
“Nope,” I said, equally confident. It was truly such a disaster down there I was pretty damn sure of my insurance policy.
Not to ruin the ending, but it turned out that my friend was right. I should’ve gotten the wax.
UPDATE: Since the writing of this article, I have super-cleaned my apartment in all of the above-mentioned areas, so should a friend or romantic interest decide to spontaneously stop by for a visit, it will be totally cool with me. OK, honestly, my bathtub might need a little touch up, just for maintenance purposes, you really have to stay on top of those tubs…
I would also like to take this opportunity to note the power of writing and the written word, i.e., you see something in writing, in black and white, such as, say, the less-than-ideal state of your bathroom for instance, and it becomes very difficult to avoid, going forward, and sometimes even inspires you to take action, which is usually, if not always, a good thing.
Copyright © 2007 by Jennifer Garam