So, it’s your anniversary and you and your manfriend have a hot date at the latest hot spot. Today’s a pretty big deal, so you wore your newest and trendiest dress. He put on a skinny tie and some loafers (for lack of a better word). You wore your nicest brassiere and your sexiest underwear that doesn’t give you lines in your ‘dress-of-the-moment’. Together, you look as though you stepped out of a magazine filled with stylish couples.
When you arrive at the restaurant the hostess greets you somewhat pleasantly. You wouldn’t expect her to be too polite, this is a restaurant that people die to try. You sit down at the table and decide that you’re both going to go with the three course romance package, which includes; a bonus amuse bouche, a rich and succulent appetizer, a mouth watering main course that is like a flavour explosion in your mouth, and a dessert that is so good, that you’re pretty sure time stops as you let each level of extravagance whoosh around in your mouth before swallowing. To ensure each course goes perfectly, you have a martini while you wait to order and enjoy your amuse bouche. You enjoy a nice bottle of red between the two of you for your appetizers and the main course, and then when dessert comes, you order a nice aperitif or a specialty coffee, all the while staring into each others eyes with equal parts lust and love. Exquisite. The night is going splendidly.
As you walk outside to catch a cab to go home for the main event (wink), you notice that your tights are starting to make you feel like you can no longer breath. Your dress, which fit loosely and perfectly before dinner is now starting to feel snug and restrictive, and your manfriend starts to notice that his buttons are pulling on his Ben Sherman dress shirt.
Oh no. You did it again.
By the time you arrive at home, all the dirty (romantic) thoughts that you had pre-dinner, have now changed into dreams of slipping into something ‘a little more comfortable.’ Your sweatpants. You were so busy having a romantic meal, that you forgot about how that meal was going to ruin your chances of actual romance because you’re so bloated that you look like a scared blow-fish. What’s that all about?
Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE going out to dinner. I love getting dressed up. I love eating foods that are sinfully delicious. I love it all. But I feel like we have this dating thing totally out of whack. Why do we plan our momentous occasions around meals that make us feel the opposite of sexy? Perhaps, we’re prioritizing wrong? Maybe what we should do is: before we go to dinner, take a trip to sexy-town to ensure that the romance opportunity isn’t missed as one partner is running to the bathroom after engulfing all that richness. And then, if luck has it that neither of you feel like a pregnant woman’s swollen foot after dinner, then you get to go for a double and consider yourself awesome?
In the words of Bill Mahar: New Rule.