The day before my fake wedding in Dothan, my girlfriends, my sister and I had a Confession Session with my mom.
One example: Mom, I wasn’t really at the library. I was barreling down Old Delaney Road with various teenagers poking out of the sunroof of Dad’s ancient Volvo. It was fun! Gravel roads, low branches, and delicate machinery be damned, it was fun. And Dad totally had no idea I'd stolen his car.
The confessions felt good. Cleansing. Glorious. And, of course, my mom already knew everything anyway.
But I feel the need for another confession session. I'm about to spill my guts to every man I’ve ever met up with on a first date. It isn’t pretty, but I’ve learned to cheerfully embrace my own imperfections. Maybe someday I’ll meet someone who finds all of this funny...
...and maybe even kind of hot.
My dad isn’t really a gun collector, and I don’t have a big brother named Bruno.
If I met you online, I forwarded your profile to at least two of my girlfriends. One, so they can amuse themselves with it, and two, so you can be identified if I turn up dead in a ditch.
I really do worry about turning up dead in a ditch. There’s a reason for that, which I don’t explain until the fifth date or so. I have a schedule for these things.
I’m sorry I got drunk and face-planted into the side of a taxi. It’s nothing personal. (Please please tell me you thought it was cute!)
It's not nervous chatter. I always verbalize every thought that stomps around my brain.
There’s a $20 bill in a hidden corner of my wallet, so I can run outside and hail a cab if you’re truly appalling.
I’m reaching for my wallet with total sincerity, and totally don’t mind paying, but would kind of prefer for you to pick up the check.
It's a successful date if I feel like I've made a new friend. I rarely feel instant chemistry, and when I do, it's because I've got a wild craving for a bad idea. I've outgrown that sort of thing, though. Mostly. Dear God, I hope so.
If I think you’re a complete jerk, I will hang around to see how awful you can truly be. I’m not trying to lead you on, it’s just that I love a good freakshow.
I'm totally comfortable with my body and my appearance. However, what I'm not comfortable with is not being taken seriously because of the way I look. It happens, a lot. Especially on dates. And I hate it.
If I’ve seen your apartment, I’ve probably mentally moved my stuff into it. This isn’t because I’m clingy, it’s because I love to decorate.
If I don't like you, I will change your name in my phone to something insulting. "Hell No," "You Can Do Better," "Handsy McOctopus" and "Handsy McInsincere" have all at one point lived together inside my address book.
I totally don’t mind being asked about my divorce. In fact, I'll bring it up myself to see whether you’re judgmental or uptight.
If you found my blog, and don't own up to having read it, I will feel violated.
I can tell you’re wearing lifts in your shoes.
I’ll be sad if you don’t call me.
In the comments, confess something to me. It'll do you good.