Toots or Toodles

Society has placed strict rules around our social interactions. For instance, it’s probably not a good idea to pee in the bushes at a park because it’s illegal…and because you might come away with a tree branch stuck in your tights that your friends have to awkwardly detangle from your pants. You also probably shouldn’t talk loudly about this new rash you just discovered over a plate of nachos at a crowded restaurant. And you certainly should not any of these things on a first date.

This guy I know would beg to differ.

During a lovely dinner of burgers and a rousing round of hypothetical’s that climaxed with ‘would you rather eat a poop-sicle every day for the rest of your life, or have a working butthole on your forehead’, we ventured to the imaginary world of socially unacceptable dating. What would life be like if everyone was viciously honest from day one? In our magical world of bowel movements, no makeup and laying your faults out on the table, every couple would know exactly what they were getting into way before rings even entered the picture. Is this world even possible? Could one ever truly be them self when the butterflies were swarming and you still turn on the faucet when you have to pee during the intermission of your Harry Potter marathon on your first “couch date”? I say no. He says yes.

I understand that theoretically it could happen…but theoretically I could also wear a neon leotard while cranking out some sweet moves like a Richard Simmons lookalike, which is another thing that should NEVER happen. This is how that theoretical date would go.  After he bluntly said, “Hey. I think you are pretty cool. I think I could like you, so do you want to go to dinner to see if we could do this thing?” I would reply, “Yeah. You are intriguing as well. It would be swell to have a candid conversation about my wants and needs in a potential mate, without all the fuss and frill of the typical games we play. I’ll bring my genetic résumé along for you to peruse over queso.”

As I sit waiting on him to pick me up (duh. Gentleman.), I take a quick glance in the mirror to go over my outfit of choice. My favorite sweatshirt and shorts, plus my TOMS that smell like dump. Hair? Ponytail. Perfume? Eau de haven’t showered in two days.  Perfect. Let’s get real, if he doesn’t like me in this, he certainly isn’t going to want a piece of this when I have morning breath and am still in the same pair of sweat pants I haven’t washed in three weeks. He arrives at my doorstep and takes me to a trendy, yet casual eatery where I proceed to order a cheeseburger…with onions, both grilled and raw because they are my favorite food ever. If my greasy hair didn’t seal the deal, onion breath certainly will. If I’m really lucky I will string melty cheese all over my face and drop a ketchup-y fry on my cleavage….classy. Rather than waste time with small talk, we get right down to the nitty gritty. Where do you stand on abortion? Religion? Adoption? Gun control?

How many kids do you want? Do you snore? Plan on getting fat? Where do you stand on me getting fat? Do you give massages? One checking account or separate? Do you have a 401k? Are you okay with women making more money (duh…sugar mommaaaa)? What do you see your sex life looking like after five years of marriage? How do you handle conflict? Do you cook? Egyptian cotton or flannel? Fold or wad? Is blatant snarky sarcasm a deal breaker? And this is just while we are waiting for our food…

Burgers tend to make me gassy, which is totally okay because I’m going to have an open door policy when married. If he can’t handle a few toots at dindin, then having a convo about our taxes while I’m taking a dump probably will be a no go. (side note: if I hadn’t already solidified my single state before…I’m pretty sure that statement just took care of it)Of course, I ask every question with my mouth full, spitting little orbs of ground chuck at his face.

Gosh, I can’t wait to tell him about my latest lady doctor appointment, but I’ll save that little gem for date numero dos, then we will really know if it’s true love.

Now, if any first date has actually ever gone like this, I’m not sure whether to applaud you or punch you in the face. I hate to admit it, but he may be on to something. Poop, lady bits and spittle? That’s the makings of a lifetime of joy if I’ve ever heard one.

In a world where you trade in spouses like cars, always upgrading to a new model, this may actually be the safest way to date. Why do we waste so much time going through the motions that someone else dictated for us? Why do we subscribe to the archaic idea that guys must make all the moves and actually admitting that you are interested in someone is as taboo as walking around naked? Maybe I’ll throw my inhibitions to the wind and lay it on the table. Every wound, every desire, every need, every fear, every hope and every fault. Just dump it at his feet and let him sort through the muck of my life, deciding if it is worth his time to clean-up.

Or I won’t.