The Only Blind Date I Want
Five years from today.
I don’t quite know what you look like. Sometimes, when I let myself dream, I see you laughing in the soft city lights, on a cold terrace, with a cup of tea in your hands and friends all around you. I notice the laugh lines around your mouth, and crow’s feet crinkled at the edges of your eyes. I see the best version of what I hope to be: poised and yet unabashed, with friendships you wear like an old sweater, and in a great pair of shoes. This version of you I meet at night, when the house is quiet and I’m under the covers. This is the you I fall asleep smiling about.
Then there’s the other one — with lips like an EKG flatline, and eyes that are always half empty. This is the one whose bets didn’t pay off (“Who does she think she is?”), whose risks proved foolish (“I *always* told her to listen!”), who decided at some point (“Zainab, you know you’re *twenty-nine* now.”) to give up, and settle for almost good enough, for just good enough. I see her in a suburban house, in a kitchen, in a nursery. I see her attending dinners and posing for portraits and smiling when appropriate. This is the you I meet when I am most defeated, the version lurking in the back of my mind, always there, always watching.
I don’t quite know which one of you will come to dinner, which one I will meet. In preparation, I have worn my best clothes; the Spanx underneath hold my belly in, and my lips are painted a confident light pink. I’ve got a slew of conversation topics ready to go: I’ll ask politely how you’re feeling, smile reassuringly, before we get into the heavy stuff.
Because what I’m dying to ask you is if you’ve stopped remembering the names of the people that left your life, if you still make your mother smile, if you still believe Tuesdays are the most magical of days. What I’m dying to ask is *if I made it*; do you smile in the mornings? Is there a best friend? Is there a man? Is there an album of birthday photos with many of the same faces appearing year after year?
What I want to know, Future Me, is if it turned out okay, this thing I’m doing where I’m choosing one of two paths, where I’m trusting on fate and God and the universe to bring good my way, where I’m telling myself I’ve got this, I’ve *absolutely*, quite possibly, maybe, hopefully, *got this*. Do you have savings? Do you have your own home? Do you still love Thai food? Did you ever make it to Ecuador? Do you still call your best friends in the middle of the night? Did you ever get rid of that acne?
But I can’t rush into this, or you’ll get scared off. I’ve got to take it slow, play my cards right, hold in my eagerness lest I smell of desperation. Play it cool, I’m telling myself; wait until the appetisers are served to start looking for frown lines, forehead creases, nervous tics. I don’t know how long you’ll take to arrive. We had set the time for an hour past 30-years-old, but you know how things are: the definition of “young & hopeful enough to keep trying” is fluid, and I can’t guarantee it stayed the same over the five years to this date. What I know is that when you do come, *if* we do meet, I promise you this: I will look upon you with familiarity, with a smile. Whether you are everything I’ve dreamed or not, I will smile with compassion, for I will recognise your struggle, and the heartbreaks and aches along the way. If you are weary, I will help you stand straight, and if you don’t need the support, I will order another round of pink lemonade, with ice, and say a toast to our success.
Whichever you I meet tonight, know this: I promise I will live fully. I will love and I will lose. I will laugh with my whole body, and arrive to business meetings prepared. I will drink sweet tea, but drag myself out of bed to go to the gym. I will look both ways before crossing the street, before signing a contract, before embracing a lover. I promise you I will try, my very best, my very most, my very hardest, to meet you joyfully, without regrets, and compliment your fantastic handbag.
