Do You Like My Dress?

It’s the age old question asked by women all around the world; ‘Do you think he likes me?’ A woman will always ask her friends this question with such an excited look on her face. Never mind that the total amount of time that said female has actually spent with the male in question amounts to little more than saying ‘hi’ in the elevator, it is still the responsibility of said woman’s friends to agree wholeheartedly that ‘Yes, he is totally into you!’ and begin to plan the wedding.

Women are hilarious creatures at the best of times, myself included. My dating history is about as sporadic and irregular as Homer Simpson’s heartbeat, and to put it into perspective, my longest relationship to date has sadly, been with my dentist.

Still, after a series of completely unsuitable and just down right bad choices in men, which include a long list of being emotionally immature; on drugs; conveniently forgot-to-tell-you-I-was-in-a-relationship; leaving the country; getting married; unreliable; mentally depressed; don’t date friends sisters; I just don’t do relationships and the piece-de-la resistance, my boss; I have not yet given up hope.

In this new age of technology, there are so many more ways than before of getting out there and meeting with the other single people of the world. Granted, more avenues also means more chances to be rejected, but that aside, even the guy who sits on his couch on a Saturday night with his finger up his nose has at least half a chance of meeting someone. Ever heard of e-harmony buddy?

Now to be fair, I may not be putting myself out there on the market as much these days, but that is because I kinda got over spending three hours getting ready to go out to a club/bar/party, where I was always dressed far to practically for the weather and not for the dating scene. And where my gal pals and I would then proceed to spend too much money on drinks that were all the colours of the rainbow and tasted like ass, and end up either too drunk to realise we were flashing our knickers on the dance floor, or too sober to have any fun.

As well, the whole idea of meeting someone when you are drunk is the worst idea in the world. What decent guy goes to a club and looks at the girl bumping and grinding away on the dance floor and thinks to himself, ‘yes, that is the women who I want to be the mother of my children’. And by the same token, what women goes to a club thinking that the guy who is buying her multiple rounds of tequila shots really wants anything more than just a one night stand?

Best case scenario, even if some guy does get the courage to come over and talk to you, and you do happen to be sober enough to realise that yes, he is talking to you, awkward conversations are always bound to follow. In between the thumping of the music and occasional grope from another guy walking past, the conversation will usually go something along the lines of the guy asking you questions; what you do, did you grow up here, and will eventually (if lucky) try and bridge that last gap of silence with;

“So do you have Facebook?” To which you will reply with a series of hand gestures signalling that you have no idea what he just said. He will then repeat the questions with a nervous laugh, and you, still not hearing all of what he said, but just enough to make out the word ‘face’, to then reply “Thanks, I like your face too” while putting on your best smile to a guy walking away from the crazy chick.

I think the fault of this over-zealous approach to relationships comes entirely down to the fact that we have a particular part of female anatomy that is our worst enemy when it comes to rational thinking. Used properly, our womanly charms can make a man literally do anything, and yet at the same time, that same part of our anatomy can make even the most sensible and sane women over analyse why a guy whom she has been on no more than one date with, wonder why he hasn’t got in contact with her for over a week. This can then lead to said women stalking said gentleman and confronting him at the most inappropriate of times, ready to throw daggers, demanding to know why he hasn’t called her. No wonder women get such a bad rap.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have played my own part in adding to the reputation of women being so crazy. On multiple occasions I have acted the part of the crazy chick quite convincingly. However, more recently and now on prior recollection of events, I have come to resolve that it would not matter how primped and preened you are for an occasion, if love is going to happen, a bad hair is the last thing that’s going to stop it.

My advice, in every possible situation, work or play, act the way that you are, and try and keep the crazy to a minimum. And if you ever run out of things to say while you are conversing with a particularly attractive member of the opposite sex, you can always sweetly smile and ask the question,

‘Do you like my dress?’