Old habits die hard. Whenever I see my cousin, we unfailingly wind up watching an episode of First Dates. Much like when I’m having a drink, wholly invested in a could-become-couple’s conversation starters and rhythmic nervous laughter: this romantic experiment is impossible not to watch.
Both exquisite and excruciating. And, sure, on-screen the odds are stacked up against these people. It’s a blind date (almost always a bad idea). They’re having dinner (more on that later). It’s broadcast live on television (hellscape). But we see ourselves in these people. The same rules apply in the wild: first dates can be exquisite, or excruciating or, happily, somewhere in the middle. Anxiety is the price we pay in exchange for meeting someone we may make out with in a way that makes onlookers feel simultaneously envious and uncomfortable. Anyone who says otherwise is lying.
