L.A. Affairs: I’m 30, anxious and my mom drives me to dates. What could go wrong?
“I don’t wanna go!”
“Allie, you have to go,” my mother said firmly.
We were sitting in the car outside a string of restaurants in Santa Monica. It was 7 p.m., which meant the post-happy hour time was still casual enough for a first date.
I knew she was right. I hated it when she was right. I had asked my mother to drive me so I could save money on an Uber. Another 30-year-old might be embarrassed to have their mom drive them to a date, but not me. Lately, I couldn’t remember what embarrassment even felt like.
I felt at home with her. I hoped she felt the same way. She was a kindred spirit, and I was falling for her and L.A. too.
I pulled down the mirror in the car to check my appearance. To my delight, I barely recognized myself. I looked like my old self — the me from five years ago, the cute girl who made an effort. I scanned my face trying to detect the confidence old Allie had too, but I couldn’t find it. I closed the mirror hard, reflexively rubbing my cheek and already deep in thought.
Mom unbuckled my seat belt for me.
“OK, OK, OK, I’m going.”
“Have fun!,” she yelled from the car window as I crossed the street. I had her park the car a few places down from the bar because I’m a grown-up, after all.
Inside, I scanned the crowd for my date, a guy I had been talking with on Bumble. When we matched, he let me know of his plans to move to Seattle to be closer to family. I appreciated his transparency and told him that I had recently gotten out of a long-term relationship. Strategically, he was the perfect candidate for me to flex my rusty dating skills. The stakes were mutually low, and it didn’t hurt that he was hot.
“JP? Hi, I’m Allie.” I suddenly felt like I was approaching the bench in court. How do people do this?
“So is that short for Jean Paul?” I pronounced Jean in a thick French accent.
“John Paul, actually,” he said with a smile. “All my siblings are named after Catholic saints.”
The dating websites I used came up with some remarkable matches that didn’t work out. Would meeting ‘Jay from Long Beach’ change everything?
Interesting. I wondered if I was interesting. My anxiety had been worse than usual lately, including these pesky intrusive thoughts.
He continued to talk about his upbringing, and I realized I hadn’t been listening to him. He directed a question toward me. Panic. I really didn’t want to talk about myself. Lately, it seemed I had forgotten how to talk about myself. Before the date, family members cautioned me not to go into “confession” mode, something I had developed during the COVID-19 pandemic. My little sister, in particular, advised that “taking it to a level 10” could make people uncomfortable.
What do I even say? That my ex was troubled, that I’d been living at home for two years? Or that I had been laid off a few months ago?
With my stomach in knots, I began to sweat. A few broken sentences in, I said: “I’m sorry. This is my first date in five years.” There, now he knows why I’m awkward. His face revealed surprise, but he smiled at my charming vulnerability.
I was on my third drink, so I went into it. All of it. At the very least, he appeared entertained by my distress and was kind enough to just listen. It was obvious that I had a lot to unload. My sister’s advice was left in the dust.
Somehow I managed to make it through the next hour. Because I’d pierced all pretense of having my stuff together, the pressure was off. However, I continued to fumble in other ways.
We met as interns at a magazine, and our friendship was based on humor. But how could I tell him in all seriousness that I had feelings for him?
“So Jean, what did you study at Harvard?” (My French accent reentered.)
“Yeah, it’s John, hard J,” he said, correcting me. This time, he seemed annoyed. We’d already been over this.
We finished our Old-Fashioneds in silence.
“What would you like to do now?” he asked, offering to go to another bar or to his apartment.
“That. Let’s do that,” I said way too quickly.
At his apartment, he poured another round, and we made our way to the balcony. He started talking about the view of the pier and how he could see his neighbors do weird things through the windows. Then he moved to a bench, and I asked if I could sit next to him. He laughed and said yes.
It’s always weird after you’ve been in a long-term relationship to become intimate with someone new. I hadn’t kissed another person in five years. Enter the intrusive thoughts. I wonder if he’ll be able to notice? I want to make out with him, I do. Am I going to be any good at this?
He leaned in to kiss me. Thank God. We made out for about 10 minutes, and then I told him that I had to go home because tomorrow was an early day. After divulging that I had absolutely nothing going on, here I was saying that I had things to do. He didn’t counter it but instead politely showed me out.
I was celebrating my birthday at an Orange County Irish pub when I met ‘Denver’ Dave. He looked like a real mountain man. He was slim and handsome in a green shirt, and he had a honey-colored beard.
In the elevator, I felt a tinge of pride. I’d done it! I’d gone on a date! I’d kissed someone new! Then a familiar sensation, something I hadn’t felt in years, flooded my body. As the doors opened, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the lobby mirror. Hello confidence, my old friend.
The author is a 30-year-old modern millennial who pens stories of human vulnerability and connection as a freelance writer in Los Angeles. She also works as a matchmaker to help others find love. Find her on Instagram: @allieroo
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $300 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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