When I was at school, girls could study whatever they wanted, as long as it involved home economics. I have to say, learning to sew a pillowcase and make edible corn fritters might have been designed to make me into the perfect wife and home maker but it left me feeling desperately unprepared for the step preceding that – dating!
Being a catholic high school there was the, all important, sex education class, which consisted of our PE teacher, Mrs Amos, insisting that “the best contraception is NO”. So there you have it, “NO” and the perfect corn fritters… I was ready to face to world.
Being from a country town, there was one night club to speak of. For anyone over 18 (or in the days before photo ID anyone who could memorise the birth date and star sign of an older friend and could stand upright) this was where you spent Friday and Saturday nights. And so sets the scene for my introduction to dating.
For years, the last song of the night was either Khe Sanh or You Shook Me All Night Long. The opening chords to these songs launched a drunken, sexually-charged, borderline psychotic game of musical chairs. Those notes were an alarm sounding that in less than 5 minutes the lights would be on and for all the desperate and dateless it was the last chance to pick up. So for three and a half terrifying minutes, the best you could do was stay out of the way, while horny Wrangler-clad singles prowled the dance floor like they were auditioning for a part in Night of the Living Dead.
When the song was over and the doors flung open, the victors wandered into the darkness with their prizes arm in arm, which I am convinced was more about balance than passion, and the losers were left to wait in line for a cab and discuss their woes with Tommy, the friendly neighbourhood bouncer. There were the occasional last ditch efforts of screaming lewd suggestions from the taxi rank at innocent passers-by, but that was usually met with appropriately offensive hand gestures.
Is it any wonder that with this as my training ground, I have no freaking idea what I’m doing when it comes to dating? Hell, to this day, when I hear Cold Chisel or AC/DC, I cross my legs and reach for my car keys out of pure instinct!
With the 15 years of experience I have had since then, you’d think I have the whole dating thing down to a fine art. But as I sit here replaying the horror that was last night’s date in my head, obviously I still have some things to learn.
Now, I’m not saying this guy was a jerk, he may have been perfectly nice and having a really bad day, but from the time we ordered the first cocktail to the time I decided to skip dessert and started signalling madly for the cheque, the man didn’t have a nice thing to say about anyone or anything in his life.
He hated his job, couldn’t stand his money-grabbing ex-wife – I thought we were onto something when he started talking about his kids but that turned into how pissed off he was about having to pay so much maintenance to said ex-wife.
I had planned to jump in and change the subject but by the main course I was convinced, if I asked this guy how he felt about clubbing baby seals, he would have tried to convince me that those fluffy little blubber-rich beasts got exactly what they deserved.
Needless to say, I said good night, caught a cab home and felt an overwhelming urge to scrub myself with Pine-O-Clean.
At lunch with my three best friends the next day, as I wiped away tears of laughter while describing the date’s comical details, I looked around the table and said the phrase uttered by single men and women the world over, “Seriously, why does this keep happening to me?” To my surprise, the reaction from my ever-supportive friend’s, could only be described as, well, scoffing.
I couldn’t believe it. This train wreck couldn’t have been my fault. I wore my first-date dress. I was a charming and witty conversationalist, when I could get a word in. My friend Mick rolled his eyes and went on to explain that it was nothing to do with my presentation skills or what he was certain is a thoroughly appropriate date dress. It was more to do with my judgement.
He went on to point out that for the 10 years that we’d known each other, I had dated cheaters, drinkers, narcissists, pot-heads, a very nice gay man who had yet to come out and, unknowingly, an adulterer. In the case of all of them, in one way or another, I had tried to convince him that they were all really sweet and just needed my love and support. In the few times I’d allowed myself to be single for more than a month, I’d been introduced to some rather hansom, nice and perfectly normal men and I was totally uninterested.
After some pondering, I had to admit that he was right. If I met a nice guy with a good job and no major drama going on in his life, I became a bit bored. Give me a 35-year-old with two ex-wives, who lives above his mother’s garage and thinks his band is one demo away from filling stadiums and I’d be buying him dinner and moving his stuff into my house before he could serenade me with a cover of You Give Love a Bad Name.
Sadly, I have no advice. Clearly I’m just as clueless as everyone else but it’s kind of liberating to know that I’m the problem. I can fix me. If the problem was them, I’d be totally screwed. One step at a time I guess.
I would like to thank my friend Mick and all the other men I know who make it impossible for me to ever say “All men are dickheads” and mean it. Some of them are pretty awesome – it’s just a matter of finding the one that’s awesome for me.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with this gorgeous guitar player who borrowed five bucks off me when I met him at the taxi rank after last night’s date. Wish me luck!
On tour with the kid 
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