I have one question for you. Will you date me? Will you date me even though I read far too much. Books of all shapes, sizes, and smells decorate my boudoir. The kind of reader that becomes giddy at the thought of going to a book store. Meandering down each of the lengthy aisles, gently running my fingers along the spines that creak and groan with welcoming noises. The spines that bound and endless amount of words, chapters, and happy endings. You will find me hunched over a book or a kindle, helplessly dissolved in a foreign land. You will be fiction for a while. You will be unnoticed. Then again, you will be the one to snap me out of the trance. True love's first kiss and all, or at least that's how the story goes.
Will you date me? Will you date me even though I would rather bare an au natural face than be made over? My eyelashes are blonde and dissolve in my alabaster skin tone. My freckles will pop out, like little brown smudges that dance across the bridge of my nose up to my cheek bones and then piroutte around my lips. My lips that are chapped because I can never keep track of a single tube of lip balm, let alone multiple tubes of lip balm. I will be lost if you ask me out for a night on the town and will be severely under dressed. Will it be because I am confident or will it be because I want to give you an excuse, a pass, to excuse yourself from me?
Will you date me? Will you date me even though I sometimes eat dessert before dinner? Or breakfast? Chocolate is my kryptonite. Chocolate ice cream is what melts this sometimes strictly healthy eater. I do not like cake. I sometimes smell like butter and sugar. I admit to you that I walk around with flour dusted down the front of lumpy t-shirts that I wore to bed and then spent the entire next day in. Am I proud of this facade? Perhaps. Am I proud of my culinary craft? Definitely. Dater be warned, I will be messy in the kitchen. I will cry if everything falls apart. I will mourn the loss of my muffins/pies/cakes/breads. I will swear off baking cursing it to an eternity of suffering and heartache. And like an addict, I will return for my fix. Perhaps in the form of late night cookies. Do you have any chocolate chips? Flour will cover the walls, the floors, the kitchen cabinets and doors like freshly fallen snow. We could either make snow angels or dust it up. Or ignore it because the cookies are finally done.
Will you date me? Will you date me even though my idea of classy cinema is the newest romantic comedy? I confess that I have seen "You've Got Mail" at least 125,783,754 times. When I am sick, curled up on the couch with a bowl of piping hot chicken noodles soup and an equally piping hot cup of tea, you can be certain that it is in the DVD player and that Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are my closest confidants. It makes me feel better. Do I know the words to the opening scene? Every single one. Have I quoted the film? Yes. But I am getting away from the point. Be assured that I will sit silently through the movies that you like, unless they are scary then I will be squirming around with fear and anxiety, because my mother raised me to be polite. I am just entertained by the notion of love.
Will you date me? Will you date me even though I would rather receive a handful of basil sprigs than a bouquet of roses? Basil smells sweet. Roses have thorns. Basil you can eat and thus live forever in your taste bud memory. Roses are easily forgotten, they will bloom and they will die. Basil is useful. Roses are to be looked at. I don't just want to be looked at. Keep your pedestal in the closet. Or better yet, keep your pedestal besides the fridge, I can really use a step stool when reaching for flour on the tippy tops of shelves. Otherwise, I will have no use of your pedestal. I refuse to be a rose, I am basil.
Will you date me? Will you date me even though I am sensitive to caffeine? Ask me out on a coffee date and see what I order. Probably tea. Anything but coffee. I will get nervous and jittery from one sip of the black silk liquid. I will talk super fast and my skin will bloom in a soft pink only disturbed by the fresh dew of sweat. Enjoy your coffee, enjoy my company, enjoy a scone. I will enjoy my tea. If you would be so kind as to let me watch you pour the creamer into your coffee, it is my favorite part. Like billowing clouds in a noir sea.
Will you date me? Will you date me even though I fall asleep at 10pm, even on weekends? The blinking green lights of my alarm clock softly call out to my slowly dwindling attention with the soft yet so sweet promises of sleep. The dark room. The sweats that I am already in. The somewhat self induced sugar coma. They are all taunting me. I will try to resist. But 9:59 will inevitably evolve into 10:00. A transition in which my eyelids will draw close simultaneously.
Will you date me? Will you date me even though I have already picked out my wedding gown, song, and cake flavor. I have said too much already. Go ahead and snicker. Sneer your lips. Tilt back your head and let out a haughty guffaw. See if I care. I will.
All my heart,