Dating Me and Real Me

I'm floating elegantly around the kitchen in my oh-so-casual little black dress. I delicately fetch a spoon from the drawer because “dating me” puts her dishes away neatly. Am I wearing underwear? Hell no. This is “dating me”, and she’s too sexy for knickers.

I don’t swear. I don’t burn myself. Oh, no. “Dating me” knows the sauce is perfect because she measures ingredients instead of throwing them in while headbanging to Bohemian Rhapsody. Only “real me” has a thing for Queen. Dating me listens to Rachmaninoff. Hell, she can even spell Rachmaninoff.

“Dating me” has matching plates for this occasion. ”Real me” isn't sophisticated enough for full sets of crockery. She can’t leave her plates unbroken long enough to serve them as a set. "Dating me" is wearing carefully applied mascara because only the real me wears clumpy makeup. Watch in awe as she tells her date that she couldn’t find any prosciutto at Woolies because “dating me” knows what the fuck that is.

Tonight, she's ever so neatly pedicured to enhance her new stilettos. Does someone this sexy get caught wearing flats? I think not.

“Dating me” is too sophisticated for Docs. She spends her mornings drinking expertly crafted espressos, not instant coffee. She doesn't even know what "instant coffee" is.  A kind of Nile Telapia?

“Dating me” serves lunch to Bach’s Cello Suite and talks about politics a lot. “Real me” would rather discuss the number of words there are for ‘zombie’ in The Walking Dead.

The trouble is "Dating me" doesn't exist. She's the woman I think I'm supposed to be on first dates. As for me? I’m a clumsy-ass woman who says ‘fuck’ a lot. I have toothpaste permanently spilled on my clothes and lipstick in my left eyebrow. I sit on the floor and watch series marathons on weekends. If you’re coming by for lunch, there will be water spilled down my cleavage and really embarrassing books on the shelf.

I once went out with a man who was the male version of “dating me”. He did wine tastings and had a career in national government. He watched 1940s movies and drove a luxury sedan. He once took a (full) coke can out of my hand and threw it in the bin because carrying it on a walk was “inelegant.” If that’s the type of man I’m missing out on by being this awkward, “real me” probably adds quality to my dating pool.