The lovely Danielle over at Sometimes Sweet has started a whole new writing project for fellow bloggers to take part in and get their creative ice cubes melting Her prompt to get us all tapping away is…
Describe a “first” (first date, first lie, the first time you experienced something, first time in a particular setting, etc). Include as many details as possible to paint a picture.
The first date I ever went on, is hopefully going to be my last.
I grew up amongst boys. I am the eldest of 4 (5 if you include my stepbrother, who lives apart from us) and I am the only girl.
I seem to remember I found it hard to relate to other girls at school. Looking back, maybe it was my pure boy-like bluntness that made them find it hard to relate to me.
I had no trouble talking to boys. They spoke my language. They were honest, upfront, brutal and forgiving. I spoke their language. I told them what I thought, what I meant and what I wanted. Granted, I lost a few beaus from being too honest, but none of them can say that they were ever confused with my intentions.
Despite this ease with the opposite sex, I didn’t have my first date until I was 22. Shocking isn’t it? I had boyfriends of course, but it had always been platonic first, developing into something more as time went on, and strangely no dates ever materialized….
P was my first real date and for the first time, I was terrified of spending time with a man. What would I say? What would I wear?!
I was late, and I contacted him as I jogged through the tourist filled tunnel to the exit, reassuring him that I wasn’t standing him up and I was nearly there. I had forgotten that Sunday meant public transport in London was pretty much null and void.
I burst out of the Underground, looking highly unkempt (my two-hour preening session beforehand was now completely pointless…thank you London Public Transport!) and feeling mightyly nervous.
He was still there, waiting, dressed in a brightly striped polo shirt (which I tell him I hate, but secretly love as it reminds me of this day). Despite my lateness, and appearance of someone who had been dragged face-first through a hedge, he was pleased to see me. He picked me up and span me round as I reached him and then promptly dragged me into the National History Museum.
I can’t really remember much of the museum, but I’ve been there dozens of times. What I can remember is looking at the geodes and fossils thinking…’I must like this boy…I’m staring at rocks…’
I can remember how easy it was to hold hands, and the tingley feeling it gave me. I remember that he bought me an ice cream and we laid on the grass, him laughing as I, ever the classy lady, made a royal mess of eating it. And I can remember my stupid decision to wear shorts, meaning I was cold and needed to go home before I wanted to. P states to this day that it was the shorts that won him over, and not my dazzlingly personality. Although it did come in as a close second.
I held out until my teeth began to chatter, and then we made the slow walk back to public transport. There wasn’t much left of the date. A quick kiss timed for opening tube doors as P raced for his train at Victoria. A gorgeous picture of a sunset he sent me from his train window.
And a message asking when could he see me again.
Nearly two years later, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have P in my life.
I may frame the shorts.