Last week was a Groundhog Day cycle of the following:
- Going on a date.
- Getting home late and/or/always slightly worse for wear.
- Being palm-clammingly hungover at work, achieving little, and devoting the few minutes of clear thinking to organising another date, with little or no regard for personal safety.
- Repeat from 1.
I think I’ve found my limit for parallel-dating; it’s not doing my professional life any good at all. So this week I’m dialling back from 11 to 8 – figuratively speaking, on the Spinal Tap scale – and keeping some nights for myself.
My brain is looking forward to lurching out of the pickle jar; my eye-twinkler can finally recharge, complete with tiny, flashing lightning-bolt icon. My aching cheeks can at last let go of that oh-so-appealing, eighty-per-cent-genuine grin of mischief.
The good news: it’s all in the name of research! I am collecting lots of data. And STDs.
Kidding. My view is that in the early stages, when you’re politely sipping on martinis and finding out how many brothers someone has, to not be parallel dating is a colossally inefficient way to go about your life.
Does this situation change when you transition to doing unspeakable things in darkened rooms? That’s an interesting question to which we’ll return. If I can stop throwing myself into bars for a day or two…