Though these date ideas sure sound dreamy, let’s get real — they’re hell on earth. Don’t waste your time. Avoid them at all costs.
Picnicking, like smallpox and wearing sandals made out of beaver sinews, is something people used to endure because they had no choice. But for some reason, unlike excessive bleeding and intestinal shoes, picnicking has transformed from a hardship required of hunter-gatherers into the penultimate romantic date option. An entire industry is devoted to shatterproof wine glasses, titanium cheese slicers, waterproof tartan, and wicker backpacks.
Have you ever worn a wicker backpack? I haven’t, but I imagine it’s not unlike hiking with an antique rocking chair strapped to your shoulders. “No, worries, my Darling. Just as soon as we scale this mountain, I’ll take this lobster trap off my spinal cord, serve you some questionable chicken salad, and make sweet love to you on a pile of gravel and fire ants.” I’m sure there are some folks out there who’ve had a lovely picnicking experience (such as imaginary people in Impressionist paintings), but personally, most of my eating-on-the-ground experiences have resulted in malaria and salmonella.
If you’re really in the mood for combining hard salami, nature, and love, might I recommend holding hands and eating a Slim Jim at your neighborhood florist?
Every time I go to a skating rink, I see a bunch of well-meaning guys who have obviously never strapped on a pair of skates, doing that herky-jerky Frankenstein walk as they try to keep up with a date who is pirouetting in a matching angora hat-scarf-mittens set. Inevitably, while she is simultaneously applying peppermint lip gloss and channeling Michelle Kwan, the boyfriend loses complete control of his ice stomp and begins what can only be described as an upright breaststroke-backstroke-breaststroke-backstroke, until he swoops about five feet up into the air and then lands, shattering his coccyx, all in the name of creative dating.
But don’t let me talk you out of this; seeing someone you’ve known for twenty minutes end up in a body cast might be your thing.
Wedding dates are responsible for 97.9% of break-ups, because there are so many things to fight about. Will we ever get engaged? Are you planning on writing your own vows? How long till we talk about at least moving in together? Did you roll your eyes during Corinthians 13? You did, didn’t you?! HEY! Why didn’t you bring me a drink from the bar? And the always inevitable: Oh, sweet Lord. Where are your pants?!
Here’s my advice: if you have to attend a wedding together, make sure it’s one featuring a bourbon tasting and flat-chested bridesmaids that are humiliated by having to carry parasols.
Sex on the Beach
I have enough trouble motivating myself to exfoliate my forehead. So, thanks but no thanks.
When I pay for a massage, I am paying someone big bucks to ram both elbows into my kidneys. They’re going to say, “Is this too hard?” and I’m going to say through clenched teeth, “Is that all you got, you f*cking pansy?” This is quality time in which my spine is going to get aligned in 90 minutes. And when all is said and done, I plan on leaving looking like I got caught in a prehistoric hail storm. So, Honey, if you want to come lay next to me while I ask for the William Wallace treatment, by all means don’t request Enya.
Hot Air Balloon
Another wicker basket activity? SHEESH! For what it’s worth, I’ve done this. And if you can get over the fact that you’re in a wastebasket in the sky, powered by fire and Dacron, then go for it. But it’s really no different than a date at a therapist’s office where both of you discuss debilitating anxiety.
Did you know this is a board game invented by the makers of Beano?
Consuming Raw Oysters
Like I always say, if you can’t find oysters, you can achieve pretty much the same thing by tossing a jaunty checked cloth on the table, lighting a bunch of candles, staring into one another’s eyes, and dipping some Ex-Lax into cocktail sauce. Here’s looking at your EpiPen, Kid.