.how to act like a girl.

so he passed the test, the first date test. i was immediately endeared and wondering when we would see each other again. i must have done alright, too, because i heard from him the next afternoon and we made plans for the weekend.

and, as i tend to be, in my internal world of polarized emotions, i was cocky. he digs me, i told myself. i just know it. why wouldn't he? i was wearing my best shirt on our first date, the navy one with the polka dots and the ruffly collar, and a skirt and mary janes and fishnets. fishnets can seal any deal, make anyone watch as you're walking away toward the bathroom, which i made sure to do more than once.

oh, but saturday morning i woke up with butterflies in my stomach, bags under my eyes, and the stone cold realization that, fishnets or not, i'm one half-assed excuse for a girl. i don't know how to giggle, flirt, accessorize. i don't know how to look like a girl or act like a girl. the protocol is foreign to me. i don't know how i missed out on the basic behavior of my gender. i spent my childhood in a house with a sister and a mom, and then i went to a college exclusively for women. my period synced up with 2,000 college-aged females, but my mind missed the boat.

i panicked and called friends for emergency shopping. that's what girls do, they buy pretty new clothes for dates and they wear them. my friend susie and i set off for urban outfitters, an arsenal of meticulously calculated hipness, equipped with a couple of secret weapons: her exceedingly patient husband and rather impatient toddler. the husband obediently picked out low cut shirts and exchanged sizes while providing a valuable male perspective ("that's not low-cut enough"). The toddler screamed "peek-a-boo!" (which she actually pronounces, "pink-ee-doo!") from under the dressing room door while i hopped around in size six skinny jeans that didn't cover my ass. susie continued to bring me size small shirts out of which my boobs draped grotesquely and i wailed at her, like a teenager to a mom, "i said i wear a fucking medium. this shirt makes me look like an obese hooker."

due to low blood sugar on all counts, mom and pop's energy dwindled while myself and the toddler became increasingly manic and out of control. a dressing room dance party ensued, complete with squealing ("look! pretty! pink-ee-doo!") and door slamming and throwing tight t-shirts in a messy pile on the floor. i walked toward the register, exasperated and distracted, ("maybe i should buy a purse! i need a purse for tonight!") while my friends handed the cashier the infuriating skinny jeans, a sweater, and a pair of earrings that i hadn't even looked at. "you can return what you don't want. let's go get some food now." i whined and moaned in mock-protest, but i trusted them and thrust down my card ("credit, please").

"these earrings are absurd," i howled on the way to the car. i made her husband put them on me while i stared at myself in the mirror of the passenger seat. i just got my ears pierced two months ago, and i am not yet accustomed to little silver studs, let alone opalescent sea-shells that dangle down to my shoulder. "i look like i'm doing some medieval ritual where they put fucking holes in my face."

"you look sexy," insisted susie. "you need to go home, relax, take your shower and get all dolled up, put on your makeup and your shoes and THEN put on the earrings."

but i had already showered and dressed. i was planning to wear the converse all-stars i was already wearing and the only makeup i own is blush and lip gloss. that's when it hit me that i really don't know how to be a girl.

but i was determined to try, so i went home and took a second shower. a bath, even. and i put in rose-scented bubble bath that my grandma had given to me as a present years ago. i lit candles and played music and tried to think feminine thoughts. i tried on all of my clothes with ruffles and lace, and then all of my lowest cut shirts, but i just felt silly. i was still changing when i realized i was supposed to meet my date in ten minutes, and i swore to my closet and put on an old, soft t-shirt and a cardigan, swept on my trusty blush and lip gloss, and tied up my converse.

the earrings flopped around my head as i scowled into the bathroom mirror. i did not feel attractive or sexy, but rather like a fucking clown. it was against all of my best judgement that i wore those earrings through the front door and down the street to the bar. i was operating on blind faith and trust that my friends have my best interest in mind, and if they say dangly earrings are sexy, i'll give them one good try.

i got to the bar, flustered and nervous, as usual, and hyper aware of the shells scraping gently against my neck. i settled into a pabst across the table from my date and we dug into some "how was your day?" style conversation. to my surprise, his eyes were darting between mine and something hovering on the side of my head. when i gestured and moved, his eyes followed and he seemed to be enthralled with the dangling. and then he said it, fifteen minutes into the date: "i really like your earrings."

so it's proven, tested, tried and true: my girl instincts are not intact. from now on, i'll delegate all flirtation and frivolity to my friends (and their husbands and children).