Portia MacIntosh - Truth Or Date

It’s nice to know as much as possible about who you’re dealing with, and Facebook is great for that, but I’m yet to friend the guy I’m meeting tonight and he’s got his privacy settings spot on, which sucks for me stalking him. I did have a quick flick through his profile pictures, careful not to knock ‘like’ on any from six years ago like I did with someone once before – nothing says cray-cray like ‘liking’ an old photo. After flicking through this guy’s photos, I’ve got to say, he’s so far out of my league, we’re playing different sports. There’s only one thing for it: control tights. The illusion of a flat stomach might level the playing field, at least a little.

I lie back on my bed and begin gently rolling the tights up my legs one at a time, careful not to ladder them because this is my only pair. It’s a new pair, and as such, the tights are super tight. I sometimes struggle to keep them up high enough at the back, causing them to roll down and give me this weird back podge that I could have an anxiety attack about if I thought too much about it…no, I don’t have a fat back, it’s just the way control tights kind of round everything up, and God forbid my date puts his hand on my back and figures out where my control tights are hiding my stomach. The solution to this problem that many people probably weren’t even aware was even a thing, is to tuck my tights into my bra, but that’s really difficult to do on your own. Luckily, I have a solution to this problem too.

‘Nick,’ I call out at the top of my voice.

‘What, what’s wrong?’ he asks, bursting through my bedroom door. He’s wearing an apron, causing me to giggle at him. Then again, I probably don’t look so cool right now either.

‘Shit, Ruby, I thought maybe one of your online dating weirdos was hacking you up in here.’

‘You wish,’ I reply.

‘You want me to pull your tights up again, don’t you?’

‘What are roommates for?’ I say with a sweet smile.

Nick shakes his head as he walks over to me, knowing that sometimes the easiest option is to just humour me.

‘You know, I struggle to recall a single thing you’ve ever done for me,’ he starts as he yanks up my tights, wrestling them under my bra at the back.

‘Erm, I helped you glue that vase Heather made you back together,’ I remind him.

‘Yeah, because you smashed it having sex on the sofa.’

‘I wasn’t having sex – foreplay, if that.’

‘Too much information.’

The process of pulling my tights up isn’t pretty for anyone involved, so I think the fact that Nick and I dislike each other makes him perfect for the job – I don’t care about how unsexy I look in front of him.

‘So, where is Heather tonight?’ I ask – not that I care.

‘She’s on her way over, so can you hold your breath or something to speed this up? I don’t want her to see us like this, she might get the wrong idea.’

I roll my eyes, even though Nick can’t see my face.

‘Dude, you’re literally wrestling me into my clothes. That’s as unsuspicious as you can get.’

‘Whatever, Ruby. Look, I don’t even know why you wear these things, you’re not fat.’

‘I ain’t thin, doll,’ I reply in a very matter-of-fact manner.

‘If you’re not happy with how you look, go on a diet, go to the gym – anything that means I don’t have to do this .’

Nick goes to the gym at least once a day, he eats clean and he is in excellent shape. My cardio involves running for trains, the only lifting I do is food to my mouth, and as such I am a comfortable size twelve…occasionally a ten, if I don’t eat salt for a few days, or a fourteen if we’ve just had a major holiday like Christmas or Valentine’s Day, the latter of which is best enjoyed alone, eating chocolate and watching films starring Hugh Grant.

‘The gym sounds awesome, but have you ever thought about punching yourself in the face?’ I ask, straight-faced. ‘That sounds much more fun.’

‘Hey, I’m not saying you need to go, I’m just all for whatever gets me out of being the person who has to pull your tights up. Just out of interest, how do you cope when you need the bathroom?’

‘I drink light and thank God for my excellent bladder control,’ I reply.

‘Wish I hadn’t asked,’ he replies as he heads for the door. He hovers in the doorway for a second. ‘Date tonight?’

‘How did you guess?’ I ask, fully expecting him to give me a lecture on how I go on too many dates.

‘The scary tights, Beyoncé playing – it’s like you’re simultaneously making yourself feel sexy enough to pull someone, whilst reminding yourself that you don’t need a man at the same time.’ I think for a second, considering whether or not this is possibly a compliment, until he adds: ‘You know, in case he scarpers like the rest.’

‘You can leave now,’ I tell him. ‘Your girlfriend will be here soon. We don’t want her catching you in my room, while I’m in my lingerie.’

‘You were right before,’ he calls back. ‘No one would suspect a bloke of sleeping with a girl in those things – at least you don’t have to worry about date rapists, they’d never get into those.’

I look in the mirror, examining my slightly smaller looking, tights-clad body and sigh. Dating is horrible, isn’t it? Just a ridiculous nightmare that’s absolutely impossible, with all these rules of what you’re supposed to do, what you’re not supposed to do, how you’re expected to behave – and most people stick to them. And even though we have bad ones, we suck it up, we have our grumpy flatmate pull us into our tight-tights and we get right back on the horse, ready to give someone else a chance. Does my optimism for finding someone deplete every time I go on a bad date? Maybe, just a little, but it also hardens me to it. I don’t take it personally anymore. I don’t wonder what’s wrong with me if someone tries to cover me in love bites, I wonder what’s wrong with people, and while that may be a depressing thought, it doesn’t hurt or damage my self-esteem, and I don’t feel bad about myself in the slightest. In my control tights, I am untouchable – literally, apparently.

With every first date there is always this thought at the back of your mind that if you just get it right this time, it might be your last ever first date, and wouldn’t that be wonderful?

I grab a dress from the top of Mount Clothesmore. It’s a short black number with a mesh panel down the front. With a little bit of extra weight comes a great pair of boobs, so I may as well work them to my advantage. The truth is that I probably could stand to lose a few pounds. If I went on a diet, my nearest and dearest wouldn’t be hurrying me off to The Priory to talk to someone, you know? I’m just normal, I guess. Not skinny, not fat – but most importantly, not bothered. I’m happy in my skin. I know how to dress to make the most of what I’ve got and I love eating and drinking way too much to become the girl who only orders a salad in restaurants. I certainly have no intention of ordering a salad tonight. I imagine I should, according to the rules of the dating game. Even if I don’t plan on keeping it up forever, I could order a salad the first few times we go out to make him think that I’m this dainty little thing who doesn’t stuff her face and then, once he’s suitably charmed by me – boom – that’s when I reveal my secret appetite for red meat and dessert.

Hair – check. Make-up – check. Tights – check. Dress – check. Heels – check. That’s me ready to go. I grab my handbag to make sure I have the necessities: purse, extra make-up, rape alarm – all the things you need for a successful date with a man you’ve never met before.