That’s Hysterical

Before every first date, I pick out an outfit, shave my face, and treat myself to compulsive, frantic, psychological episode.

I know that it’s coming, but I’m still surprised when it does. That’s because it manifests in different ways and in various phases of my pre-date routine. This micro-breakdown sometimes hits me while I’m in the shower — singing a loud and off-key rendition of a Ying Yang Twins song, which is an oxymoron. My Night At The Strip Club Spotify playlist is a traditional choice when preparing for a romantic night on the town, and the Ying Yang Twins are sprinkled throughout this curation for obvious reasons. Strip club anthems are the calling card of Atlanta’s most party-ready, rapping misogynists. I’m body-rolling my way through “The Whisper Song," when suddenly I think to myself, Oh God. I’m about to go on a date with someone for the first time! What am I doing?!

What follows is a series of questions directed at myself. Some are date-specific [Do I have money in my checking account?] and some are much more existential [How did I fuck up my life so dramatically?], but each one is accompanied by a palpable rush of panic and anger. This episode is amplified by the fact that I never give myself enough time to get ready. Since I’m prone to these freakouts, I avoid getting ready too early. This helps me avoid downtime to mull over new worries. This also backfires and I end up sprinting from room to room, trying to make my face and body appear fuckable while showtime inches nearer and nearer.

Date Dash comes to a screeching halt when I finally have to stand in front of the mirror. Here, I study my reflection and reflect on how I achieved this toneless, adolescent build. With the possibility of sex looming in the near future, I take this opportunity to yell at myself for everything I’ve eaten in the past 27 years. I blame my parents for shitty genetics and I wonder aloud how my siblings managed to look like Swedish TV anchors while I look like someone who’s perpetually recovering from last night — a balding, 20-something version of David Caruso on a bender. I am fat and skinny and look too young and too old. I am a physical paradox. And somehow I have a date.

FUCK! I HAVE A DATE!

No time for bathroom sobbing. Bathroom sobbing can wait ‘til later when I’m drunk and alone. This train of thought leads to a second round of questions about my impending date, mostly along the lines of my predisposition to drink like a monster. Like most of us, I’m a more affable person after a couple drinks. Unlike a vast majority of us, I will tear past the acceptable limit until I am a hurricane of insobriety. Knowing this, I will engage in a psychotic debate with myself about the pros and cons of anxiety drinking and its effect on my “game.” This debate is interrupted by a sudden compulsion to have a drink. Slipping on underwear and yanking up socks to the stretchable limit around my calves, I hustle to the kitchen where I shotgun a Michelob Ultra with the fridge wide open. That’s better, I think. I’m going to be fine.

I spend the next few minutes ironing my outfit in hurried brush strokes and nodding along to Genuine’s “Pony.” Night At The Strip Club is still going hard. I’m not calm, but I’m making it. I pass for fine until I fully dress and return to the mirror. This is where I come undone again.

Sometimes there’s discoloration on my sleeves or a stain on my collar, but most of the time, I just hate the outfit. I grit my teeth and I cover my face with my hands so I don’t have to see what’s in front of me. Here comes the meltdown.

Nothing fits.

Nothing’s new.

I wish I had nicer things.

I wish I made more money.

I wish this wasn't me.

*Bathroom sobbing*

Eventually, I run cold water and dab my eyes and cheeks. I throw yesterday’s office attire into the dryer with a Bounce Sheet and an ice cube. I open Spotify and change Night At The Strip Club to Angry Workout. I turn the music all the way up while I latch my Rolex and mist Spicebomb across my neck. Fuck this, I think. I didn’t spend two days trying to convince a guy on the Internet to like me by using charm and recycled jokes just to break down in overtime. This is happening.

I’m crippled with anxiety at any given point in the day, but there’s something about going on a job interview for sex that turns me into an erratic basket case. But once I’m on the couch, and 7PM is only a few minutes away, I cool down and somehow find the confidence to leave the house and go to dinner with someone I barely know.

Then, across the table from a perfect stranger, I will experience an entirely new dimension of horror as I agree with ideas I don’t believe and pretend to be someone I’m not.

Please enjoy Night At The Strip Club.